


Mirage: An Optical Illusion Caused By Atmospheric Conditions

by TerokNor



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Not the main pairing, Other, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, mentioned sexual assault, not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-11-01 18:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 126,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17872142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerokNor/pseuds/TerokNor
Summary: Something that appears real, but is not so.Elliott Witt is not who he appears to be.And everything disappears in the ring.





	1. Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not set completely in the Apex Legends canon, becaaaaause I never played Titanfall. Instead, we're making it up as we go along. Just like grad school.

"Hello, Mr. Elliott Witt."

He shifts uncomfortably in the hard wooden rickety chair. 

The tiny, cramped trailer is sweltering. 

Flies buzz around their heads.

Yet the woman sitting before him in a squeaky clean white chair doesn't seem to notice or care.

In fact, she doesn't seem to notice or care about much of anything, merely smiling, all-teeth, at him when he squeezed in through the door, sitting down on the chair awkwardly as he tries to navigate the cramped space. 

Her hair is pulled back so tightly that it almost looks as though it hurts; her tight white suit seems to be made of some kind of latex, but he doesn't see how she could force a smile on her face if that is the case. It has to be over 100 degrees in this trailer. 

"I just have some preliminary questions for you before we begin looking over your application for this year's bloodbath."

She flashes perfectly straight white teeth at him, her dimpled cheeks round and flushed just the right shade of pink as she stares at him with bright eyes. 

He shifts uncomfortably. 

"Gotcha."

"Do you have a history of mental illness? Does your family have a history of mental illness?" 

"No. I mean. Mom always said my oldest brother was a little off color like my old man, and he had to be, right, volunteering to fight on the wrong side of a war, I mean, that's just bonkers, plain nutso-"

"Please answer questions with yes or no."

She says it so mildly, her brown eyes still staring straight forward vacantly, seeing right through him.

"Uh, sorry. No."

"Do you have any preexisting medical conditions?"

"No."

"Have you ever killed a person before?"

_He shoved the lying, cheating scum bag down the trap door._

_"No, wait, please!"_

_Without hesitating, he kicks the fucker's face square on with his boot. It makes a sickening, but oddly satisfying, crunching sound as it smashes into his nose, probably breaking it instantly._

_The man falls to the bottom floor, whimpering, clutching his bleeding face._

_"You-you can't- leave me down here!"_

_"Don't worry, you'll have company."_

_And he drops a thermite grenade down._

_And pulls the trapdoor closed with a slam._

_It doesn't make him feel like a good person, but he certainly doesn't feel bad as the floor beneath him shakes with the force of the explosion._

Elliott hesitates.

The woman smiles, tilting her head.

"All answers will be kept completely confidential," she says sweetly.

"...Yes." 

"Last question."

She leans forward with her eerie, all-teeth smile, her eyes closed now, a pencil tapping her chin. 

"Are you afraid of death?"

He stares at her.

_Death is all around._

_The air stinks of it._

_Home should never smell like death and disease and destruction._

_The grass isn't black, the sky isn't dark and empty, it doesn't smell like open wounds._

_The ground isn't scorched and blasted beyond recognition._

_The people he loves are home. They live under the same roof, breathe the same air, laugh at the same little nothings._

_This isn't a home, it can't be home, because the only lingering presence here is death._

"No." 

Her mouth twitches. 

"Be aware that you are not allowed to lie during the preliminary review process." 

"I'm not lying." 

She smiles wider. 

"Very well. You may go now, Mr. Witt. We will be in touch if we feel you possess the necessary skill set to participate in this year's Apex Game." 

He gets up stiffly, glad to be released from this hot little hell on earth. 

Before he leaves, however, he turns to the woman at the desk.

"Can I ask you a question?"

She doesn't look at him, merely shuffling her papers for a few minutes.

But after a while, she seems to tense, as if surprised to see that he is still standing there. 

"What?" she asks, her voice slipping for the first time. 

"What if I did lie? What's the protocol for you?" 

Her upper lip trembles.

But it's a very small mistake. He barely catches it, because she is smiling again, lips steady, as she meets his eyes.

"If the powers that be choose you, then your lies will not matter," she says, face stiff, unchanging, but her voice dropping some of its cheerful veneer and taking on just the slightest hint of cruelty. "No one can lie in the ring."

He feels a chill that has nothing to do with the suffocating temperature or tongue-shriveling aridity. 

"...Well, I'm not a liar." 

"Everyone is," she says matter-of-factly. "But it doesn't matter on the island. Now if you'd kindly leave. I have many people to interview today."

She waves her hand at him and he finally leaves the little trailer, swatting at flies and tugging at his sweaty collar as he does.

"Scary lady," he murmurs to himself. "Glad she won't be in the ring." 

A guy with a gun he can handle. A massive fight to the death on an abandoned island out in the middle of the ocean he can handle.  But a lady with a smile like an alligator and a bun pulled so tight that the skin of her face looked like it was stapled on? He'll pass.

He whistles to himself as he searches out the nearest bar. 

It's going to be a long 72 hours without alcohol, and he needs to get some of the stuff in his bloodstream now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need more Apex Legends content in my life, and sometimes you have to give a little to get a little.


	2. Character Select

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love peacekeepers.

"Rules."

Elliott trots behind a woman in a white lab coat through the Apex Games Complex.

It is an enormous building shaped like a great ship, its high arching ceilings appearing from the outside like fully extended sails on great metal masts. 

They walk through a glass tunnel, looking down on multiple rooms, their walls bright white, their tiled floors glistening white. Elliott glances at each occupant, curious. 

They look like lab rats, dirty and grimy, wearing dark colors in contrast to their cold and sterile surroundings. 

Although the glass is one-way, a woman catches his eye. 

Somehow, even though she cannot possibly see him, her pale white eyes flicker upwards and she looks directly at him, her sickly-looking face instantly alert. 

Her messy dark black hair shakes loose from her ponytail, swinging wildly in her face as she follows his movement. 

The woman in the lab coat notices where he's looking.

"She's one of the legendary winners from last year's Game," she says. "I'd watch out for her. Although, that may not help you!"

She lets out a wild laugh.

Unlike the previous employee he'd met, this one seems more relaxed, even cheerful.

"Anyway. Rules. Stay inside the ring. It'll get smaller and smaller every twelve hours, until the last twelve hours of the games, in which it'll move exponentially faster. If the ring overtakes you, you'll die a slow, painful death." 

He nods. 

"There are maps set up around the island to let you know where the ring is, but if you forget to check them, or let the ring catch you off guard, you're done for." 

He already knew that.

"Next rule: every participant is in a squad of three."

Elliott frowns.

"Wait, really? I don't remember that being in the brochure."

"Yes. Everyone has a squad. If you come without one, you're assigned one," the woman says, tapping her clipboard for emphasis.

"I work alone," Elliott says. "I don't need help, it'll only slow me down."

"It's not about needing help. It's about the showmanship. The pizzazz," the woman in the lab coat says. "No one wants to watch some loner guy go off into the woods and get instantly obliterated by some guy with a machine gun. Putting people in teams give the viewers at home something interesting to watch. Whether that's...watching a whole squad get wiped because they can't get over their personal differences, and can't work together or...watching a much disadvantaged and outgunned squad somehow manage to pull off a victory over a better equipped or higher skilled squad through sheer determination and cooperation. That's where the entertainment comes in." 

"Ah, Christ," Elliott sighs, rolling his eyes and adjusting his goggles habitually. "Apex Games, more like Apex Reality TV. Fine. We don't have to stay together anyway, right?"

"Of course not. It's recommended, but...no, squad mates can separate if they want." 

He nods cooperatively. "Guess we'll work something out." 

"Another rule: You are only allowed one weapon from the outside. One weapon of your choice, and as much ammo as you can carry. There are weapons on the island hidden away, but to begin with, you are allowed one personal weapon. And it can be anything. I assume you brought one to register today...?" 

"My Mozambique, never leave home without it," Elliott says with a cheeky grin. "I call it 'Peacekeeper.'" 

"Very well." 

She writes furiously on her notepad. 

"In the meantime, I will be introducing you to your assigned squad mates now.  You will have the next twelve hours to rest or bond with your teammates. I would suggest bonding. After all, it's good to get to know the people you're going to be working with. Plus, teams might be required, but they're certainly not set in stone. And there's no rule against killing your own teammates! I know if I was going to spend the next three days holed up in the wilderness with two strangers, I'd want them to like me so that no one slits my throat in the night!" 

She giggles.

Elliott stares. 

She waves nonchalantly. "I'm kidding. Even the most unbalanced of Apex competitors generally try to save the killing for enemies. And killing your own teammates is a rather foolish move anyway. The Apex Games are not for fools. Only assholes." 

She stops walking and gestures to a door, which slides open. 

"Your team is waiting, Mr. Witt. Play nice, play fair, and try to enjoy yourself! I hope to see you again!"

He walks passed her. 

Wondering how many other people she might've waved to their doom. 

The door leads to a small set of stairs leading down into one of the many rooms he had seen while walking with the woman through the hallway. 

At the end of the stairs is another sliding door. 

He taps this one and it slides right open. 

He readjusts his collar and brushes his hair back before walking in to meet his two squad mates. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team comp doesn't matter that much in Apex Legends, but some people pair up with Mirage better than others.


	3. These Are Your Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about putting Mirage with his trailer squad before writing the fic, but then I thought nah. 
> 
> Then I thought about putting him with conventional squad picks like Lifeline, Gibraltar, or Bangalore.
> 
> But then I thought nah.

 The rule that a person can only enter the Apex Games in a squad of three is perhaps the only rule Alexander Nox dislikes.

There are many rules he enjoys.

For example, the rule that anything goes (kill anyone, use any method you like, just be the last survivor). 

The rule that the ring is what ultimately decides your fate (like death, avoidable for some time, but inescapable in the end).

The rule that you may only bring in one weapon, and must search for hidden weapons on the island (a rule he frequently breaks). 

And the unofficial rule: your squad mates are expendable, as long as you win. 

Alexander Nox scratches his temple contemplatively, feeling quite at home in the laboratory environment, if a little impatient to begin. He knows that he could easily win Apex Games on his own. He's the solitary type to begin with, and his well-placed gas traps are more than enough to take out entire squads. 

In the past, he has found his squad mates to be quite loathsome, small and insignificant, quarreling over little things like strategy and positioning when he is a natural trapper, with instincts that must not be questioned.

He has always simply ignored his team, choosing to go his own way with only a slight warning to his squad mates not to be in certain areas at certain times. 

Until two years ago. 

When he'd met the hunter. 

Alexander Nox, legendary title, Caustic, looks across the room at the first of his surprise squad mates for this year's Apex Game, unsurprised and maybe a little pleased. 

Bloodhound. 

He'd heard of them long before he'd met them. 

How could he not, when Bloodhound was known far and wide as a fearsome and mysterious technological tracker, a fearless, brute force of nature to be reckoned with in the Apex Ring, capable of finding anyone, no matter where they hid or how fast they ran? A winner of multiple Apex Games, who'd appeared out of nowhere one year, and consistently gotten themselves and their team mates out of the Game not only alive, but mostly unharmed? Who'd become the Apex champion for the fourth time the year before they'd met? 

Their prowess as a hunter was known. 

But Caustic hadn't seen their prowess as a killer up close and personal until the year before. 

And although he is not one to compliment anyone, if anyone were to ask, Bloodhound is one of the few competitors he would hesitate, just a little, to engage while in the Ring. 

He nods once in Bloodhound's direction.

Bloodhound nods back. 

They both remember. 

_The third person in the room, a rather unimpressive-looking ex-military-grunt type, shrinks away from the center, preferring instead to gravitate towards the wall._

_He's probably not totally incompetent. He has military training, so can be expected to have decent aim, some amount of skill with most of the available Apex weapons, some combat experience, and some experience with killing. Caustic expects he would not be totally useless in a fire fight. And perhaps he would even be intimidating to civilians, or to Apex rookies. But to Caustic, he looks as puny as an ant. He might as well be a bot, capable of shooting, acting as a human target or a meat shield, but not worth much else._

_No, it's the second person in the room that he's interested in._

_He's heard of them, seen them in the news, but he's never met them._

_Now they pace before him, not an inch of skin showing, body lanky and graceful in its movements, gently running their gloved fingers over a dagger._

_They stop._

_And look at him._

_Caustic carefully searches Bloodhound's mask, tracing the lines of the tubes and wires hanging from the the red breathing apparatus presumably over their mouth, the dark holes where their eyes should be, hidden behind a layer of plastic and cloth, utterly indiscernible._

_He has never been intimidated by an Apex competitor before...and he isn't now._

_He thinks Bloodhound is...interesting. A more exotic insect than the rest. With a particular aura that gives him pause. Forces him to keep his distance. Asks him for some amount of respect._

_But he is still not particular impressed._

_There are many insects that are more deadly than the common insect, that command more attention and perhaps more careful treatment._

_But an insect is still an insect._

_After all, reputation matters very little to him. If this person can be useful, then perhaps they can be more than just a fancy and perhaps slightly more valuable tool. He suspects he will know if this Bloodhound is more than a means to an end by the end of 72 hours._

Alexander Nox cannot say that he is happy to see Bloodhound on his squad again (he still does not feel he needs squad mates, even ones as useful as Bloodhound). 

But he cannot quite say that he's apathetic to this team composition either. 

Many small and pathetic worms enter the Ring, thinking they were destined, or perhaps simply deserving, of glory. 

He finds them petty and considers most of them to be beneath him.

But Bloodhound is not one of them.

When he'd met them before, he'd only been mildly interested in their aura, in the effect of their presence, both on his squad, and on the other squads. He'd be intrigued by the mystery of their abilities, if not their appearance or backstory (triflings). But he'd only seen them as a...special research subject. Still a subject. Still only a specimen.  

But now, he almost considers Bloodhood as an equal. 

Almost. 

The subject of his rumination tilts their head at the door.

Caustic looks towards it as well as the clanking sound of footsteps enters his own hearing range. 

The door slides open. 

And a man in a bright yellow suit strides in, yellow goggles pushed up to his forehead, holding back silky brown hair, his face boyishly handsome and his attitude recklessly confident. 

"Hey, party people. You ready to get weird?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this for myself, and it feelsgoodman.


	4. Anyone Got A Mic?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what you call Caustic's stupid yellow lab tunic, so I'm calling it a stupid yellow lab tunic.

The heavy man in the yellow biohazard suit glares at him.

Elliott Witt smiles back. 

"You're my squad, huh? Just don't slow me down and we'll get us that victory." 

He claps his hands together. 

The man in the biohazard suit and yellow lab tunic turns away from him dismissively.

Elliott's smile slips for just a moment, his eyes calculating. 

He's still not thrilled by the rule forcing him to be on a team.

He and his clones are good enough. They're the only team he really needs. But rules, rules, rules. 

This guy with the greasy hair and ugly forehead looks like he has a real nasty streak in him. Probably a good thing for the Apex Games, but a bad thing if he loses his temper. Elliott wonders how much he should push this guy, but only for a moment, as his natural impulse to tease overcomes his logic.

"So what's your schtick? What weapon are you bringing in?"

_Maybe his weaponized farts? This guy doesn't look like he showers._

"There's no need to speak to me," the man says shortly. "Just follow me, shut up, and do what I say and we'll win."

"Charming fella," Elliott says. "Nice to meet you too. I'm Elliott-"

"You are Mirage."

Elliott pauses. 

Now he's suddenly aware of the other presence in the room, the one that was so quiet and unimposing that he'd almost completely ignored it. 

A...person decked in beige tracking garb, light armor, with yellow shoulder and knee pads stands some distance away from both him and Greasy Hands McGee. 

They are about the same height as him, but slightly shorter than Deodorant I Hardly Know You. 

And there is a small raven perched on their shoulder, staring at him with its beady little eyes. 

Elliott stares at the raven at first, but then his gaze is instinctively drawn to its owner's eyes, trying to glean some information other than the outside appearance of this person. But their mask hides everything. 

That gives him a pause, but only for a moment before he dismisses it. 

"Mirage?"

"Everyone has a special name in the Ring," the person says calmly, their voice patient, curling with an exotic accent that he's never heard before. "Yours is Mirage. I read it in your file before you came in."

"Oh. Mirage, huh? That's cool. I like that. Like those hallucinations people have when they're in the desert and they start seeing water everywhere, right? What's yours?" 

"Mine is my name. Bloodhound."

"Oh. Ok," Elliott says. "You got a brother named Basset Hound?"

He laughs at his own joke.

The other man in the room makes a swift, jerky motion as though annoyed. 

But the mysterious masked person, Bloodhound, only stares at him. 

Undeterred, Elliott, Mirage now, pretends that under that mask, they're smiling, just a little. 

"What's his name?" He jerks his thumb at Second Rate Bond Super Villain. 

"Caustic."

Bloodhound gestures for Mirage to come closer.

He does. 

"Try not to antagonize him so much," Bloodhound whispers. "He  _is_ an asset, but he has a temper."

"Gotcha," Mirage whispers. "Too bad he has no sense of hygiene."

He gives Bloodhound a friendly pat on the shoulder. 

Too close, he finds out, to the bird.

Its beak snaps at his fingers, drawing blood.

"Yowch!"

"Don't antagonize him either." 

Mirage hops away, putting his finger in his mouth and sucking indignantly at the wound.

But he's grinning, having sworn he heard a smile in Bloodhound's voice.  

Alright.

One grumpy team mate, one weird but kind of nice team mate.

Sweet. 

He hopes they pull their weight. 

And he hopes they keep underestimating him, because there's nothing in the world he loves doing more than tricking people into thinking he's a fool before showing them what he's really made of. 


	5. I am the Jumpmaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This morning I fell off the bridge at Relay into the falls and killed myself before anyone else in the entire game died.
> 
> My squad mates could've respawned me, but I couldn't live with the shame for the next fifteen minutes, I just couldn't, so I left in shame.

Mirage swallows nervously.

"Uh...what if I told you I was afraid of heights?"

Caustic's glare is so withering even Bloodhound shifts a little uncomfortably. 

After twelve hours of almost total silence, Mirage taking a small two hour cat nap somewhere in there, they had been ushered outside by a small army of eerily smiling women in lab coats. There they had walked onto a landing pad, where a massive ship was landed, its belly wide open, waiting to swallow all sixty of its passengers whole. It had been an uncomfortable ride, with most of the people in the ship glaring at one another distrustfully. Mirage had bumped into several people as he'd squeezed in, one of them a young black girl who'd let out an irritated yell as he brushed passed her.

"Be careful where you put your hands. They might not come back to you in one piece," she says, her accent thick and strangely melodious, her own hands behind her back. 

"She looks like a rookie," Mirage says to his team mates as he settles into his spot near the front of the airship. "Can't believe her mom would let her participate in an Apex Game. She can't be older than 18."

"Don't let appearances fool you," Bloodhound says quietly. Mirage feels goosebumps break out all over his neck as he finds himself uncomfortably close to the masked hunter. There are already too many people crowded around them, holding onto straps hanging from the ceiling. When the airship lurches, probably due to turbulence, he finds his head jerking much too close to the hunter's breathing apparatus. "Everyone in this ship is here to compete. They know what they must do." Their voice sends shivers down his spine, but he's not sure if it's what they've said, or just the effect that accent has on him. Or the effect of having Bloodhound's voice so close and personal to his ear. 

Now they peer over the edge of the drop ship's open doors. Several teams had already dropped. Only their team and two others remain on the ship. 

Mirage stares seriously back at his team mates.

For a whole second.

Before his face breaks into a toothy smile.

"Just playing. Let's get out there!"

He pulls the straps of his jet pack tightly against his back. 

Then he takes a running leap out the back of the airship, yelling out in excitement and exhilaration as he free falls, wind whistling in his ears, yanking his hair every which way. 

His two remaining team mates look at one another with exasperation.

"Does he know where he's going?"

"I doubt it."

And they follow their teammate out of the airship, leaping off together at the same time and timing the speed of their fall to catch up with him. 

Mirage hits the ground rather clumsily, having never landed with a jet pack before. His legs give out from the initial, jarring impact, the ground whirling under his feet for a moment, the sky spinning above him, making him rather dizzy. He had been joking about being afraid of heights, but even people who aren't afraid of heights would be a little leery at the idea of leaping out of an airship with only a jet pack strapped to their back. He had been so nervous that he'd had to throw himself out quickly, before he could think about it anymore, or else he would've frozen in place. But just like jumping off the high dive in middle school, the hardest time is always the first time. After that, what felt like a colossal challenge becomes trivial in hindsight. 

Bloodhound offers him a hand.

He takes it gratefully, allowing them to pull him to his feet. 

"Relay," Caustic says, viewing his surroundings with disgust. "A safe choice, with little benefit."

"Well, sorry, we should've jumped out earlier," Mirage says. "But you didn't say where to jump out, so...I decided." 

"It's a good place for a rookie to start," Caustic says condescendingly. 

Mirage looks around. 

No one else had landed here with them.

Below their feet is a massive waterfall falling off a cliff into the ocean. There is a thin metal bridge leading from one cliff side to the other. 

There are also yellow ziplines stretching out in all directions, connecting a small gaggle of buildings that would appear to be grouped together in a sociable huddle if they weren't separated by dangerous, death-inducing drops.  

Mirage can't help but be awed by how beautiful the location is. It might be an island dedicated to the slaughter of at least fifty people, but he can still appreciate that it's a _scenic_ island dedicated to the slaughter of at least fifty people. The grass is emerald green, the trees thick, soaring, and leafy, the water a clear blue, the surrounding landscape majestic, spotted with human buildings, but possessing large wide strips of untouched natural growth. The area they're in is awfully quiet as well, only disturbed by the booming, rushing sound of the waterfalls and their runoff rivers, bubbling cheerfully through grass and mud. 

"Yeah, I'd vacation here. Sit back, enjoy the waterfalls, maybe take a spin on those ziplines. Maybe toss someone into the ocean if they try to take my Mozambique." 

He reaches for his holster, intending to take it out for show. 

But then his eyes widen as he finds it empty.

"Wait. What the...where the hell...?" 

He turns around rapidly like a dog chasing its tail.

"Oh, son of a bitch!"

He suddenly sees that girl on the airship, the one he'd bumped into, who'd kept her hands behind her back...

"She-!"

"It was for the best," Caustic growls. "Useless trash weapon. Go find something better. There's sure to be something lying around here. In the meantime, I have business to attend to."

Mirage frowns as the trapper turns away from them and marches stoutly away.

"Wait, where the hell are you going? We shouldn't be splitting up so soon, should we?"

"Unlike you, I know what I'm doing," Caustic says sharply. "I have a plan. And it doesn't happen to include you right now. Bloodhound."

The hunter looks in Caustic's direction.

The toxic trapper's voice is a little less...caustic as he speaks to them. 

"I am gathering supplies. Bunker, in 48 hours. Make sure he is ready." 

"Ready for what? You know I'm right here." 

Bloodhound nods. 

Caustic continues walking away from his team, his only chosen weapon, a crowbar, in his hands.

Mirage watches him in disbelief.

"So that's it? We're just gonna let him walk away? He's going to get killed. We're going to be down a team mem-"

A woman's voice suddenly booms over them, cutting through the silence and echoing across the entire island, causing Mirage to jump.

"First blood!"

Three enormous banners that Mirage hadn't noticed before, as they had been completely blank, suddenly come to life, colored with the images of the girl who'd stolen his Mozambique, and her two squad mates, the pale young woman Mirage had seen earlier, in the lab, and a rather intimidating looking black woman with short, military-cut hair and a strong, square, no-nonsense jawline. 

"Hey, it's her!"

"She is already the kill leader," Bloodhound says. "You really do have an eye for trouble."

They reach into their backpack and pull out their little raven, who looks rumpled and a little grumpy, but none the worse for wear. Their one weapon, Mirage figures. 

"Keep an eye out for us," Bloodhound whispers to them. 

Then they turn to Mirage. 

"We must find weapons now," they say. "We should split up, but stay in this area until it is time to move on. Do not engage with an enemy if you spot one, we are outnumbered due to Caustic's absence."

"Well, that's your fault," Mirage says. "Why didn't you tell him to stay?"

Bloodhound strokes the head of their raven gently before lifting their arm into the air. The bird takes flight with a squawk, flying into the sunlight overhead. 

"Caustic is a very...particular person. He...has a special ritual he must perform before he is willing to engage in team work. He is...preparing. You will understand when we meet him at Bunker." 

Mirage lets out a huff of annoyance. "Well, alright. But what kind of moron only takes a crowbar into a death arena? Doesn't he know everyone on this island is going to have a sub machine gun? He's going to get mowed down like a blade of grass." 

Bloodhound breathes heavily, their distorted voice showing a little character as they almost laugh in response to his statement. 

"He is crafty. He knows that he would never be able to operate at full capacity with only one weapon allowed before landing. The crowbar is...his key to unlocking...other weapons." 

Mirage shakes his head. "Whatever he wants to do, I don't care. I just hope he doesn't get his big lumbering gas-filled ass shot down before the game even really gets started. Now, team mate, just point me in a direction and I'll meet you back here once we're armored up!" 

Bloodhound points at a small building beside a massive satellite. 

"Head in that direction. Loot the buildings on this side. I will loot the buildings on the other side. We will meet there, at the green beacon, which will tell us our position and the position of the ring, and where it will be positioned in the next twelve hours. Then we can figure out what direction we will head in, and what our plan for the next 72 hours shall be." 

"...ok," Mirage says with a sigh. "Sounds good. Sounds fine." 

He puts his hands on his hips and stretches his back out, his muscles cramped from standing still for so long in the airship. 

"Say-?" but when he turns around to ask Bloodhound another question, they are already gone. 

He shakes his head again. 

"And here I am, all alone, talking to myself. And they think I need a team? This is pretty much like being on my own."

He continues talking to himself as he enters the nearest building and begins looking for something to replace his poor, defenseless, missing Mozambique. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no respawning in this fanfic, if you die, you die.
> 
> The respawn points, however, function as maps where you can check the position of the ring. 
> 
> There are cameras everywhere and there are several spectators reporting on the game so that people who are watching the Apex Games know what's happening. It's like a three day long sporting event. 
> 
> Anyway, I know these beginning chapters are kind of boring.
> 
> We'll get into the fun meaty stuff soon, I proooooomise.


	6. Enemy Spotted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was playing Apex Legends all day.
> 
> It's kind of funny, I got shot by enemies while trying to familiarize myself with Relay to make sure I was more or less accurate with my descriptions for this fic.
> 
> So every time I describe a location in Apex, remember that I most likely died or at the very least, severely inconvenienced my teammates for that description.

An actual Peacekeeper. 

Mirage groans in relief, pulling it from the supply bin and cradling its comforting weight in his hands. 

"You'll do just fine," he says, stroking its cold metal, exhilarated by the power in his fingers, the hard, perfect shape of a brand new shotgun. He finds two boxes of shotgun ammo conveniently placed right beside it and throws them into the backpack he'd found in the neighboring building. 

Not a very spacious backpack, but it'll do. 

He also finds a glowing piece of white armor, which he grabs and pulls towards himself. As soon as it touches his body, it instantly reforms itself to fit snugly on his body, clinging to his chest and then disappearing, becoming completely invisible unless you looked very, very closely and noticed its slight glimmer. 

He's happy with the Peacekeeper.

Not so happy with the P2020 he finds, and the overabundance of light rounds, but not shotgun ammo. 

"Damn, I guess you're my backup," he murmurs to his P20. "The second child I'll never love as much as my first because he'll just never be as impressive or talented. I'll have to call you Elliott." 

He laughs to himself rather self deprecatingly. 

Then he stops as he realizes he's talking to himself again. 

Bloodhound is waiting for him at the green beacon, poring over a topographic map. 

"Find everything you need?" they question. 

"Got a crappy gun and a good gun. Also found some armor," Mirage says. 

Bloodhound nods, not looking at him. 

Mirage notices that they're holding a Longbow DMR in their hands. 

"That's a nice gun," he says. 

Bloodhound doesn't respond; instead they point at the map with their pointer finger. 

"We are not in the ring, unfortunately. But it is not too far away."

They point out the ring to him on the bright green surface of the red beacon. 

"Ah...yeah. Cool. And where's the place we're going to meet Caustic at?"

"Here. This is called Bunker. It is a somewhat dangerous former lab facility roughly in the center of the island." The tracker backs away from the beacon a little. Mirage leans forward.

"So we're...going through this gray..industrial patch then? Should we start heading that way?" 

"No," Bloodhound says simply. "I am not fully equipped, and neither are you. We both need helmets and knockdown shields. I also am lacking an acceptable optic. I would like a sniper optic, or at least a mid range optic. You could use a choke and a shotgun bolt. I also was not able to find any med kits."

"Ah, alright, alright. Where are we going then?" Mirage asks.

"Wetlands. It is nearby and I have sent Muninn to scout out the area for us. It is that way. Come."

They crook their finger at him. 

Rather amused by the gesture, Mirage follows them willingly enough. 

He is new at this, after all. 

Bloodhound knows more about the Apex Games than anyone, probably. 

He decides to bring this up as they begin walking, the ground muddy and wet beneath their feet as they head for the Wetlands.

"So, this isn't your first time, probably won't be your last time. You nervous?"

"No."

"Huh. Me neither."

The ground sucks at their feet as they walk, mud splattering up to their knees as they walk in the direction of another gaggle of buildings somewhat far off in the distance. 

"You know all the pro strats, right? Best places to camp, best angles of attack, when to be in certain places, when not to be in certain places?"

"Not everything is predictable in the ring," Bloodhound says. "You must let the Allfather guide you down the right path, at times. But there are steps you can take to ensure you can walk rather than crawl." 

Mirage chuckles. 

Then he pauses. 

"Allfather?" 

 But Bloodhound does not answer his question, only continuing on, their mind presumably lost in thought. 

They stop at the base of the stairs to the next cluster of buildings. Bloodhound raises their arm and quite out of nowhere, their fat little raven flies down and lands on them, pecking affectionately at the cloth of their wrist. 

"No one has been in the vicinity too recently. But keep a sharp eye out as you loot," the technological tracker says. "Even Muninn can miss enemies that double back." 

Mirage nods, already trotting up the stairs, eager to find some gear. 

Although he can't say he likes this Bloodhound person just yet, he's a little glad to have a reigning champion on his team. 

There are a lot of things he can learn from someone who's done this so many times, and done it well, so it would seem. 

Shield cell, medical syringes, another shield cell, an arc star, a trusty thermite grenade, some ammo he can't use, but he'll pick it up anyway for Bloodhound, a knockdown shield, and a helmet. He pulls the latter on his head and is shocked to find that it perfectly molds itself to fit him, and like the chest armor, it all but vanishes, its weight gone. 

"High tech shit," he says to himself as he leaves the last building he'd been responsible for looting. 

He looks around.

Bloodhound isn't waiting for him this time. 

He waits for a little while, but then gets bored, as his team mate is taking their time, perhaps still looking for optics to best equip their weapons or maybe switching out them out for better ones. 

He paces around for a bit, enjoying the fresh air and sunlight, but then grows bored of walking in circles. Taking one last peek at the spot where Bloodhound should be waiting, he begins to walk towards the southeast, intrigued by the distant shape of small huts over what appears to be a swampland. They look almost tribal, as though some kind of swamp witch with cursed voodoo dolls and shrunken heads would usher him into them to read his palms. His curiosity is much stronger than his patience. 

Oh, what the hell, he figures. Might as well see if there's anything worth looting, then head back. 

He walks through the swamp, the water just barely below the top of his boots, slowing him down and making a swishing sound as he pushes through it. 

He grimaces at the lily pads and pond scum that float around his ankles and the green water, which splashes onto his yellow suit. He pauses, then finger guns at a nearby supply bin, a smile on his face. "Bingo! Supply bin spotted." 

Mirage reaches for the supply bin and flips the lid open. 

Oh, shotgun bolt, just what he- 

He trembles as shots ring out in the air, bullets peppering holes through his body. 

Two men he hadn't seen step out from the huts they'd been hiding under. 

They approach Mirage's writhing form, their guns continuing to shoot at him.

Or rather.

Through him. 

Mirage, the real Mirage that is, having sent a clone to the bin from a short distance away, ducks behind the nearest large tree. 

His unfortunate clone dramatically clutches its neck one more time, then disappears. 

The two men yell out in shock. 

"What the hell?"

He grins. 

"Close call." 

"Fan out!" one of the men calls. "The real one must be around here somewhere!"

Mirage cautiously peeks around the roots of the enormous tree. 

One's coming this way. 

Time for another diversion.

He sends out another clone, this one running in the direction of the nearest building.

"There he is!"

They begin firing at the clone.

He bolts around the tree, getting up behind them, shotgun in hand. 

"Bamboozled," he says with a grin. 

He hits the man, but his shot only bounces off of white armor, which appears upon impact.

Both men turn around.

"Oh shit."

Forgot about the armor. 

He darts away. 

Feeling a bullet or two hit his back, but thankfully, bouncing off his own armor.

He races up the nearest ramp, diving into the nearest building. He shuts the door behind him just for a sliver of extra time, then twists his only thermite grenade on. 

As the two men burst through the door, he tosses it. 

The first man manages to react in time, diving backwards and landing safely, if not softly, into the waters below. 

The second man is not so lucky.

The armor protects him from the initial damage, but eventually, it cracks under the pressure of the thermite grenade's prolonged, sparking explosion. 

And Mirage, seeing his chance, aims a shotgun blast directly to the chest. 

The man yells out in pain and falls backwards. His body drops into the water, heavy as a stone, blood staining the lily pads red, crimson human life force leaking into the fresh green marshes and soaking it with viscera. 

"One down."

Mirage runs through the hut, crossing over a wooden walkway to get to the next one. 

The other man shoots wildly at him, but misses every shot. 

He dives down low as the man reloads, running straight at him. 

The man lets out a shriek as he begins shooting round after round into Mirage's stomach. 

But then he stops, confused, as Mirage doesn't react. 

Only clutches his non-bleeding chest in fake agony, before vanishing. 

The man looks around rapidly for the real Mirage, but is too late.

The real Mirage, now to his right, aims his Peacekeeper at his head. 

"I gotta admit, I may have tricked you." 

He smiles as he pulls the trigger.

Only, he misses. 

His rounds graze the man's shoulder and left side rather than blow his head off. 

Mirage staggers away from him, cursing as he feels a brief, glancing pain in his thigh, the cause of his misfire. He reaches down and feels an oozing gash in his leg, presumably from a bullet.

"Fuck!"

He looks around, but doesn't really have the time to do so.

He feels rather than sees another bullet whizzing by him, only narrowly missing his stomach. All he sees of it is the little explosion of wood as it bounces off a nearby tree root. 

As he stumbles away, throwing out another decoy just to give himself a slightly better chance, he tries to calculate where that bullet could've come from. 

And then he realizes that while he'd been trying to down these two guys, he'd completely forgotten that their third squad mate had probably heard the ruckus and come out to investigate. 

Shit. 

"Always were the brightest of the litter, weren't ya, Elliott? Mama sure is proud," he murmurs to himself. He stumbles underneath one of the huts, crouching low and hiding rather clumsily behind a support beam. 

Then he sees that the third team mate is foolishly grabbing his ally, trying to pull him up and away to safety. 

Mirage immediately lurches forward, yanking out his P2020. 

The pain in his leg seems to vanish as adrenaline drives him forward. 

He shoots twice and hits both shots perfectly. 

The third man goes down, two bullets having smashed straight through the back of his skull, the man he'd been trying to help falling with him. 

Mirage breathes heavily, not quite feeling the full effect of his injury just yet and walking forward even though he's probably exacerbating the wound. 

"Fuckers," he pants. 

But as he approaches them, intent on finishing the second one off properly this time, he hears more gunshots. 

"For fucking real," he says, his voice as whiny and indignant as a child's. 

Then he darts away from the two men, intending to go back to Wetlands to find his own squad mate. 

Only, he feels a bullet whiz through his right shoulder.

He feels this one much more than the bullet to the thigh. 

He howls as he is brought to his knees, the cold water stinging at his open wounds, lapping lazily at his torn flesh like a hungering wolf's tongue. 

But he keeps crawling, even though he knows they're right behind him, and can easily get a shot on him. 

He has to.

He can't quit, won't quit, even though there is yet another squad here, one which probably heard the fighting and came to see who they could finish off.

Even if he is alone, without his team mates, without the use of one leg and one arm, he keeps moving because he doesn't know what else to do, or rather, because this is what he has to do. The only thing he can do, the only thing he should do. He crawls away, painfully dragging himself up the nearest ramp. 

Up, up, into the building. Shut the door.

Try to access his medical kit. 

But he hears the splash of footsteps, hears the subsequent slamming of heavy boots on rickety wood as they follow his blood trail to the room he now hides in. 

Mirage backs himself into a corner and activates his knockdown shield, even though he knows it's pointless.

 _Well done, well done, you might as well have been first blood, you blue fucking rookie,_ he thinks to himself as the enemy squad kicks the door down, crowding into the room and bearing down on him like a swarm of piranhas.  _No glory, no honor, no money, no fame, no nothing, and all because you just had to go for a walk, a little walk in the woods, on the island of fucking misfit murderous toys. Mama did raise a fool._

He closes his eyes as he feels one of them punching at his shield, not even bothering to waste valuable ammo on him. 

_This is it, this is it, this-_

One of the squad members, a catty looking young lady, does a little victory dance. 

She pulls her leg back, probably intending to finish off his shield, and then him, with spiteful style. 

But all of a sudden, the air is filled with just sheer deafening noise. 

The girl lets out a scream. 

She falls to the ground, chest riddled with bullet holes, blood soaking the floor boards, dribbling through its cracks, feeding the swamp with human blood once again. 

One of her companions, the taller male, whips around, gun in hand, but whoever had shot his companion is gone, the door slamming shut behind them.

The taller male runs out the door, intent on finding the killer. 

The other man approaches Mirage swiftly, shooting at his shield with his R-301 Carbine. 

Mirage throws out a desperation clone, all while desperately hanging onto his shield. The clone briefly takes damage for him, but vanishes too quickly. 

And his shield breaks. 

The man before him continues pulling the trigger, but the gun is empty. 

He curses as he's forced to reload. 

Mirage, feeling dizzy and rather sick, crawls again, making one last ditch effort to get out the door. 

He hears multiple gunshots coming from underneath him, but doesn't really pay them any attention as he tries to make an impossible escape.

The man follows him, his gun now re-loaded and poking into the back of Mirage's head. 

Mirage closes his eyes again, ready to die now. 

But the doors before him suddenly burst open. 

His eyes still shut, he rolls to the side, feels someone brushing passed him, is deafened by gunfire. 

And then feels, doesn't see or hear, a body dropping against his leg. 

Mirage opens his eyes now.

It's his attacker. 

His face and chest bloody, his body completely limp, he is as dead as Mirage had assumed _he had_ been. 

And standing next to him is a familiar masked technological tracker. 

Who falls to their knees and tilts their head at him. 

They extend their gun to him and point at it. 

And even though Mirage is completely deaf from having guns shot off right next to his head, he can still, somehow hear, or perhaps simply imagine he hears Bloodhound say:

_Found my optic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moral of the story: stay near your goddamn team.


	7. Reviving...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caustic stink.

Bloodhound knows Wetlands very well. They know Swamp very well. 

And they may not know Mirage very well, but they had certainly been able to follow his tracks fairly easily. 

The man is saying something to them, but they do not listen, tilting his head up and healing him with the med kit's advanced dermal regeneration technology. 

Muninn, resting on their knee as they heal their team mate, caws gently. 

"You could not wait for me?" Bloodhound asks, their voice soft, almost as if they were only talking to themselves. 

Mirage pipes down, his face pale, looking grateful, but still a little panicked. 

"I would have gladly slaughtered those who would oppose us with you. If we are to be a team, you must have patience. I am slow, steady, and particular. You are headstrong and brash. I do not believe the Allfather has gifted you with the skills of a hunter, only those of a chaser, who enjoys the thrill, but not the reward." 

Mirage's eyes flutter closed. 

"A short rest," Bloodhound murmurs. 

_They have seen many die._

_They have seen many ghosts, haints, specters, traversing frozen wastelands, doomed to an eternity of swollen purple feet, stinging faces, and empty stomachs._

_But it is not the dead who are haunted, only the living._

_The dying._

_Those who have died and lost their spirits long ago, but whose bodies continue moving, whose eyes move without the flicker of a soul._

_A child of proud and noble warriors and hunters is left without a single living soul left to guide them._

_Only those of the dead, which cling to them like the ice that forms on their eyelashes, on their eyebrows, slicing at the tip of their nose, and battling with the furs protecting their heart._

"It is not your day to die, Mirage." 

The Allfather does not will it. 

Bloodhound holds Mirage's head gently in their lap, gloved fingers absentmindedly stroking his hair as their own mother had once done for them, when they were a small child. 

_A small wolf pup, who wiggles and squirms in their lap._

_They giggle and pet the animal gently, as is their way._

_"They're too soft to be a hunter," Father had said. "There's no shame in it. The Allfather blesses all of us with different strengths and weaknesses. Perhaps they are an artist. A healer. A gifted poet, with the power of words."_

_"They are a warrior, as all who honor the Allfather must be," Mother said sternly._

_They don't want to be anything._

_They just want to play with the wolf pup, listen to their parents' calming voices, and sleep peacefully in a nest of furs to the sound of hail beating fruitlessly against their hut._

"Rest for now," Bloodhound says again. "We will go to Bridges. And then we will find Caustic at Bunker." 

* * *

Far away, at Artillery, Caustic kicks yet another corpse down into one of the many metal sheds. 

For no reason he can think of, Bloodhound comes to mind. 

But then, perhaps there is a reason. 

After all, he is disposing of the body of yet another research subject, and that brings back memories of their time together last year. 

Of unleashing his gas on unsuspecting victims.

And Bloodhound. 

Glorious and impartial, a force of nature, tearing through flesh and bone like the vengeful spirit of a wild animal, driven insatiable by death, a howling creature, craving the fear and submission of its prey. 

Able not only to see through his gas, but pass through it as swiftly as the wind, dagger in palm. 

Slashing through throats. 

And hearts. 

Crude, and unscientific, but he can't bring himself to chastise them.

As long as the research subjects die, he can observe. 

And if he's totally honest with himself, he is intrigued by Bloodhound's methods. Imprecise and excessive, yet still somehow, in their own chaotic way, beautiful. 

Caustic's hands slip on one of his deflated gas traps. 

_Blood drips down their mask._

_The blank, empty black eyes are splattered with blood._

_The breathing apparatus is dripping as though Bloodhound were a true animal, fangs slick with scarlet._

_And they are breathing._

_Breathing hard._

_Caustic isn't sure if he's imagining the bright red that seems to pulse from within the eyes of those mask, if he's really seeing an aura of red hanging around the masked hunter's head like a cloud, but if he isn't, then he imagines God's angel of death is privileging him with the rare sight of its halo._

_Caustic knows no god. Does not believe in any one god, nor the Allfather that Bloodhound sometimes refers to, prays to, sacrifices others to._

_But he knows the power and righteousness of a true hunter when he sees it, a strength which is neither cruel, nor malicious, only determined, without moral inhibitions, focused on only one objective_

_He knows pure instincts that bear no particular animosity towards any particular living creature, for any particular attribute, but seek to destroy all life on principle._

_This is nature at its rawest and most refined._

_Nature and science, together, sterile and perfect, and so very savage._

He wonders if the yellow-suited fool has gotten himself killed yet. 

He wonders if perhaps even Bloodhound cannot save such a hopeless cause. 

But no matter.

If Bloodhound cannot save the loud-mouth, then it is only natural selection. 

Caustic continues to deflate his gas traps, preparing to pack them up and get moving again. They had been hidden precisely where he'd last left them, under electrical paneling that he'd needed his crowbar to pry open. He could not bring his traps themselves into the Ring, not initially, but he could bring his chemicals. 

And he could bring his chemicals to the traps he needed, carefully hidden through out the island, thanks to a generous tip to the Apex Games shareholders, who always appreciated his research, thought it was a "good show." 

He doesn't care if Mirage makes it to Bunker. 

He just knows he'd be disappointed, perhaps, if Bloodhound did not make it this year. 

In a way, he and Bloodhound are polar opposites, as he kills for science and Bloodhound kills for the joy of slaughter. 

But at the same time, they share a common bond of knowing the hedonistic and senseless sadism of seeing one's mortality reflected in the dying eyes of another. 

Such a sentiment cannot be expressed, but by one apex predator to another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAUSTIC CHILL.


	8. Using Med Kit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know shit about the Titanfall universe, do not be fooled by the terminology.
> 
> I'm taking great liberties with the story. I don't know the timeline of Apex Legends either, but I'm pretty sure it's set way after the IMC was dealt with.
> 
> But that's fine, cuz like I said, I've got a vaguely defined plan in my head, but I am essentially making this up as I go along.
> 
> And you're here for the ride.

It takes quite some time for Mirage's head to stop spinning. 

He leans over, neck bent, arms around his stomach.

"That...that is some strong shit," he gulps. "Ugh, but I still feel a little sick."

"Your body has been forced to heal itself at a rate at least five times faster than its natural rate," Bloodhound says. "You will not begin to feel normal for at least an hour or so." 

"N-normal? I'll settle for functional," Mirage groans. "Ugh. Did...did these ugly bastards have anything good on them?"

Bloodhound sits across from him, gloved hand on their right knee pad. 

They nod. 

"Blue body armor, a purple helmet, which I am wearing. Another blue body armor piece, which is for you. A shotgun bolt, which is also for you. An HCOG Classic, for your P2020. And some replacement ammo for all the ammo I assume you used up."

"Hm, my aim isn't that bad," Mirage grumbles. 

But he smiles in spite of the pain, the fever that's burning through his system. 

"Thanks. For saving my ass, I mean."

"Doing my job," Bloodhound says lightly. "Think nothing of it." 

"Doesn't matter what your motivation is if the end result is the same," Mirage says. Then he winces as he feels pain like a lightning bolt jerk through his chest. "Shit, my heart is still racing..."

"It's the drugs."

"I did plenty of those in college. They didn't feel like this."

Mirage's head thumps against the shitty broken wooden walls of the hut.

"I'm just joking, of course. I never went to college."

He shifts uncomfortably, not wanting to show how much physical distress he's in, but unable to stop his body from twitching. 

"We are off course and delayed due to your injuries," Bloodhound says, voice neither disappointed, nor comforting. "The longer we stay here, the more likely we are of coming across a heavily fortified team with better equipment." 

"Y-yeah. I get it. You know what? I'm fine. I can get up. Just jog it out, haha," Mirage says, his trembling arm reaching behind to propel him off of the wall. But it buckles as he tries to stand up, his legs shaking with exertion. "Just give me a minute."

"You will move when you are ready," Bloodhound says simply. "I was simply stating the most likely chain of events. I am not afraid of approaching defensive teams. If it is our time, then that is how the Allfather wills it." 

They cross their legs now, putting both hands on their knees.

"Ok, see, that sounds defeatist," Mirage protests. "Like you're accepting that we're going to die and you're fine with walking us into traps."

"I would never do such a thing."

"But you were just saying that if it was our time-"

"If it is our time, death will be beyond our control. It will be as inevitable as a wave crashing down on the shore or a volcano erupting with magma. Death is a part of life, a force of nature that ends the process of living. It is not to be feared or hated, nor is it to be welcomed. The Allfather expects us to fight to the bitter end for our pride and honor, but he also expects us to accept his blessing with dignity when the time is right." 

"...Ok. Poetic," Mirage says with a shrug. He winces again. "Doesn't reassure me."

Bloodhound stares at them, their feelings indecipherable.

"I rely on my skills and knowledge from past experiences to guide my decisions. I will use every resource at my disposable to survive. I will never choose to blindly accept the termination of my existence. I will only accept it if the situation is out of my control. If the Allfather has decided that a stray bullet will pierce my heart. Or if my enemies surround me, and I have nothing to defend myself with. When I say that I accept the Allfather's wishes, I do so knowing that only at the very end, will they be clearly known. Until then, I fight every day expecting it to be my last, but also knowing that when the time comes, I will know for sure that it is."

The man opposite them nods, focusing on their words to distract from the pain, which is beginning to subside, but slowly. 

"This...Allfather of yours. What...religion is he from?"

"An ancient one. A long forgotten faith." 

"And...your parents taught you this stuff?"

"Yes." 

"Hmph. Nifty. My mom was never keen on religion," Mirage says back. "Too much room for doubt. She liked the hands-on dirty work of rolling with whatever life throws at you. Only person you can rely on is yourself." 

Bloodhound does not respond. 

Mirage, wanting to have something to distract him, tries something else.

"Say, where did you learn to shoot like that? That was impressive work, the way you downed three people on your own."

Bloodhound, back leaning against the wall, tilts towards him ever so slightly, perhaps not expecting him to continue their conversation. 

"You also downed three people on your own."

"Sure, but I know where I learned to shoot like that. I wanna know where you picked it up. I like shotguns and pistols. Not much of a sniper, if I'm totally honest. I assume you're the opposite?"

"I prefer long range weapons, but I am comfortable with close range combat." 

"Any story behind that? You like hunting big game? Is that where you practiced all of your aiming?" 

"Yes. I used to hunt massive creatures in alien jungles across the Frontier. It honed my hunting instincts, improved my tracking abilities. Trained me to be adept at navigating any terrain. But I do not hunt animals anymore. It became too easy. Too predictable. Humans aren't predictable. Humans are always a challenge." 

Mirage flexes the arm closest to the shoulder that had been shot. To his relief, the ache is beginning to disappear completely, leaving only some sore tendons.

"Morbid, but I like it. Me, I'm a mercenary. Used to fight for any faction that paid me. Gave me good aim and the good sense to know when to bail. Fought in three different civil wars on planets through out the Frontier. Usually for the government, or the corporation with vested interests in the resources of the colonized planet. Only once have I fought for the rebel side, and it was the biggest mistake of my life. You never wanna work for the underdogs, never. It just doesn't work out the way it does in movies, where the 'good guys win with the power of their self righteousness. I barely got out of there alive."

Mirage laughs. 

But there's a small knee-jerk reactionary pain in his chest, a quite unexpected jolt of regret. 

"I...I knew the Frontier Militia didn't have a chance in hell. Everyone did. But I guess I..."

_He was only in it for the money, as the rest of the Apex Predators were._

_They joked, lounged around IMC headquarters, talked avidly about the kills they had gotten that day._

_They mocked the farmers and the carpenters  and the builders and the homesteaders they gunned down, people without the sharpened skills or instincts of trained fighters, who might as well have shot their brains out with pistols before the IMC CEO board for all the good it did._

_They ate shit military food, smoked fine cigars sent by the IMC, probably to make up for the shit food, watched downloaded porn on their private IMC-funded holographic monitors, only testing their connection to IMC satellites on sunny days, slept with local women, who were attracted to men with money and power, or perhaps were too afraid to say no, bit a bullet here and there when skirmishes occurred on the ground or up in space._

_He had been quite happy to be among them._

_Living in the moment, enjoying the fruits of his labor, trying to forget everything he had lost by taking anything and everything he could have._

_Not a care in the world._

_But he chose to leave that life behind._

_Or rather, he fucked it up._

Mirage stops talking. 

Bloodhound is watching him, but he's suddenly back there, on Castor. 

_Walking among them was his first mistake._

_Seeing how difficult creating a home could be on an alien planet, how hard they had to work to terraform the land and cultivate crops. Seeing the sweat and tears and blood that had to go into creating a society from the ground up._

_The difficulty of creating working, reliable irrigation systems and generating enough electrical power for medical facilities. Trying to maintain a complicated bartering system for basic necessities, done through official channels and on the black market, without devolving into potentially violent disputes._

_He had tried to strut among them imperiously like the rest of his coworkers._

_Tried acting the part of an IMC enforcer. Making orders that had to be followed, intimidating the locals, to remind them of who was in charge. Accepting bribes and special allowances and looking the other way when it suited him._

_But his mother still lingers in his heart, so it would appear._

_Because while he's living there, it's impossible not to seek out people._

_He's social by nature. Can't ignore his loneliness in a place like this, can't shove it away like he always could in the past, traveling between planets like human cargo, dropping on the ground whenever necessary, doing his job, and being transported out immediately after._

_He frequents every bar at Epsilon Refueling Port 3, a charming and utilitarian name for a town, until he finds the one filled with people who are curious about him._

_Much too curious, but they don't get new people way out here too often._

_And though they don't like IMC scum, in fact there is nothing they hate more, they can't resist the promise of a new story, even if it does come from a member of an occupying force._

_And Elliott is a storyteller at heart._

"You were involved with the Apex Predators."

Mirage nods. 

"Best days of my life."

_The boys laugh and laugh and laugh, drunk and gleeful, wild and careless because they can be. Because no one will stop them, no one will punish them._

_"Fucking maggots, squirming around on the ground. Little worms, wriggling in piss and shit until the bosses decide we get to stomp their lives out," they say._

_The old man whose daughter was getting married soon and who was desperately saving up money to try and pay for his wife's safe passage out to Castor looks at the ground, his balding head, with tufts of white hair, bowed in respect and fear._

_Elliott can't bear to look at him._

"Best squad of mercenaries this galaxy has ever seen," Mirage says with a forced smile. 

Bloodhound is staring at him, but he doesn't care. 

_Lined up on the ground, on their knees._

_Defenseless, helpless._

_Each prescribed a bullet to the back of the head._

_It is so ingrained in him by now that he can't even hesitate anymore._

_He receives the order, and that's twelve more bodies._

_Twelve more dissidents, lying in the graves they'd dug themselves._

_Pieces of their heads floating in the wind, resting in the mud._

_Their hearts intact, their minds now free, but their bodies on his hands._

_The Predators wipe the blood off._

_But he doesn't._

_It never wipes off, not in the sink, not in the shower, not in an explosion at the Alpha Base, where he'd made eye contact with the young woman, in her late teens, who'd dropped a live grenade into a plasma reactor._

_He still has the scars on his arms and chest._

_But the skin that was drenched in innocent blood will stay attached to him forever, even if he did scrape and scrape and scrape until there wasn't an inch of it left._

"Mirage...you seem troubled."

Mirage lets out a bark of a laugh. 

Then he stands up, a little unsteady but catching himself just in time. 

"No. Let's get going. I've about had it with this shitty swamp. It's too hot. Where are we going next?" 

"Bridges. It has been four hours since we arrived. We have eight hours to make it to Bunker before the ring closes. But it will grow dark in two hours." 

"So we'd better get moving, huh?" Mirage grunts. 

"We will not make it to Bridges in two hours." 

"How long will it take?"

"At least four."

"Well we can't really wait here, now can we? I say we move in the dark and just hope everyone else has the sense to stay put for the night," Mirage argues. 

Bloodhound doesn't say anything for some time. Mirage can almost hear them considering his proposal in their mind, probably trying to see alternatives. Finally, they stand up and offer him their hand. 

"You are alright to travel?"

"Yep. A little sore, but nothing I can't deal with. So we go to Bridges and camp there for the rest of the night?"

"Yes. It is not the safest place, but it cannot be helped. We do not have time to pass through Artillery, as I had wanted to, or to meet with Caustic at Bunker on the first day." 

"Yeah, I know. That's my bad, alright? I owe you one. Well, two, actually, I guess. For saving my ass and for dragging yours all the way out here and ruining your plans. But I'll make it up to you by the end of this thing, I promise." 

He flashes the hunter a winning smile before pushing at the door of the hut. 

Bloodhound follows him down the ramp, and back onto soggy, muddy ground. 

Mirage lets them pass him, since they know the way to this "Bridges" place. 

He's glad they're leading the way because all he has to do is follow. 

Following superiors' orders, following platoon leaders, following his older brothers around the workshop, not really helping but pretending to while playing with holograms. 

It comes easy to him. 

Followers don't have think. They don't have to make decisions. Don't have to wrestle with the bad judgment calls they make. 

Don't have to stay awake all night, tormented by what-ifs, like what if I hadn't been a coward, what if I hadn't followed orders, what if I hadn't run? 

Followers go where they're told, and he's quite happy to let Bloodhound take this one for him. 


	9. Charging Shields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longer than I thought it would be.

It's been a long time since he's crossed terrain like this. 

Mirage lags behind Bloodhound quite a bit.

It had been rough to begin with, since his muscles felt all funky, like they'd been shaken out of place and were only just getting used to functioning properly again. 

But after two hours of walking up and down muddy hills, he's starting to really feel the strain in his chest.

"You-you know, I'm pretty in shape," Mirage huffs as he stumbles after the technological tracker. "But it's-it's been a while since I've been, uh, out in the wilderness like this."

"I believe you."

Mirage stops, partly to breathe, partly to look at Bloodhound with a mocking air of disbelief. "Are you being sarcastic?"

"No."

"You cracking a joke?"

"Not really." 

"...Well, that was a good one anyway. Look at us. First day isn't even over and we're cracking jokes like old friends." 

Mirage chuckles, but the sound turns more into a wheeze. 

Bloodhound doesn't respond, their head merely tilting slightly as they look back at Mirage. 

"We can rest, if you want."

"Nah, nah, it's getting dark. We need to keep moving. I'll take my power nap when we're somewhere safe."

And there's no way in hell Mirage is going to stop for a "breather."

Not when it's already bad enough he's limping behind Bloodhound like a wounded dog. 

"...very well. If you're sure." 

Bloodhound continues walking, their travel companion making valiant efforts to keep his heavy breathing down. 

He wasn't out of shape, really. 

But after Castor, he'd stuck to cities. To industrialized and developed worlds. Planets full of zooming transport ships and electric subways and moving platforms and cities in the clouds, with anti gravity bridges that did all of the work for you. 

Nothing in the concrete jungle, well, electric, platinum, ionized jungle, that reminded him of his old haunts. 

This island is nothing like the wilderness of Castor, he reasons as they walk, the shadows lengthening as the sun falls. Nothing like it. The undergrowth isn't nearly as thick, there are clearly defined paths where hundreds, thousands of competitors had walked and ran, trees are sparse, there are only bird cries, and no other creatures whimpering in the distance. 

It isn't raining. 

And yet, he can't help but think of Castor now that the lid had been flipped open. 

_There's Artie. Soccer champion, better than all the other teenagers and most of the adults. Only seventeen and he's better at beer pong than Elliott ever was. He likes to play card games and has an instinct for poker that's robbed Elliott of two paychecks now. He wants to be a geologist someday, studying rocks on other Frontier planets._

_Leeta. Shy, thirty one, mother of a 4-year old son named Tyler and a year old infant named Jacob. Her husband worked at a refinery two planets away, only able to visit twice a year due to IMC limitations on vacation time. She's a hell of a light energy technician and seems to know everything there is to know about light armor._

_Mao, cheery, hot-headed, a loud mouth. Best vehicle mechanic on the planet, not that there's much competition. Thick, musclebound, toolkit always on his hip, grease on the apron he always wore._

_People he came to know._

_Care about._

_He couldn't help it._

_It's not in his nature to mind his own business._

There it is again.

That burning, miserable feeling of regret in his stomach. 

He'd become accustomed to it, as its sharpness had softened with time, becoming more of a dull ache, but sometimes it flares up against like a nasty chronic illness.

Like bile building up in his lungs, or patches of his skin suddenly flaking off, exacerbated by extreme cold. 

He watches Bloodhound's back and almost laughs aloud at the irony of thinking about the people of Castor while following a tracker. 

_Anyone who tried to desert their post was to be dragged back to the town and publicly shamed._

_Elliott hurries behind Rembrandt Collier, the professional tracker of his unit, capable of skulking through miles of undergrowth without pausing or losing the scent._

_Now he gestures to Elliott, pointing at the mouth of a cave._

In there,  _he mouths._

_Elliott goes in, gun drawn in case the victim panics and becomes violent._

_He enters the cave, only to find Artie, whose guilty hands are holding on to an energy cell he'd presumably stolen from his work place at the power plant._

_"Please don't tell. Just say I left my post," Artie begs. "I...I just needed it because the only way I'll get off this stinking planet is sending my application to the university on Delta Sigma and the fucking town is still without power because the IMC only cares about their ore refineries. We've been without power for over two weeks now. Please, the deadline is in two days and without this, I'm screwed."_

_Elliott sighs, shaking his head, a hint of a smile on his face. "Kid-"_

_"You're screwed_ with _the energy cell, boy."_

_Elliot tenses as Rembrandt approaches the cave now, his eyes steely and unkind._

_"You've broken the law. You've stolen private property. And for what? So you can send in an application they'll laugh at and toss away before they even open it because it comes from Castor?"_

_He kicks dirt at the boy._

_Artie flinches, closing his eyes._

_"You're worthless. You're never getting off this planet," Rembrandt says with a sneer. "You'll die here with the rest of your family and friends, working for the ore refineries."_

_"You don't know shit," Artie yells angrily, his face red, the energy cell, twisted and metallic and mangled from being awkwardly cut from its loading port in hand. "You think that working for the IMC makes you some big man, strutting around our town and our home like you own the place? It doesn't. It makes you a coward and a bully. And the IMC's guard dog!"_

_And then Rembrandt lunges forward and seizes Artie by the collar._

_He throws him back with enough force to knock him onto the ground._

_"Rembrandt! What the fuck are you doing?" Elliott shouts._

_But the man ignores him._

_He stomps down on the kid's stomach with steel-toed boots. Twice._

_Three times, before Elliott can drag the incensed man off of him._

_The boy screams and the sound echoes in Elliott's head long after he carries the boy back to the town, where Rembrandt chains him to the pole sitting in the center of the town square, and makes an example of him._

"It is down there," Bloodhound murmurs, their quiet voice interrupting Elliott's train of thought. "Do you see that structure, perched on the edge of the cliff? Down below is Bridge Valley. We are very close." 

Mirage looks blearily at the structure, with two floors, holes in its ceiling, and holes in its walls. 

"We're not staying in there, are we?"

"No. It is riddled with structural weaknesses and is far too open to potential hostiles. There are better structures to spend the night in below. We will make camp in one of them."

Bloodhound begins to walk towards the direction they had pointed in.

"You sure we should be down there instead of this...weird...cave thing? It's kind of safe looking in here."

"This 'cave thing' is a tunnel which leads to another zone," Bloodhound says patiently. "People pass through these tunnels often. It would not be wise to sleep in a location that is frequently traveled." 

"Ah, it's like a...crossroads. Ok. Makes sense." 

The masked tracker nods. 

"Let us continue." 

Mirage waves in agreement, even though Bloodhound is no longer looking at him. 

"Aye, aye, Captain," he says. 

* * *

The double-floored structure really is a piece of crap.

It looks as though any second its desperate grip on the cliff would give way, sending its huge, crumbling wooden body tumbling down into the valley. 

Mirage amuses himself by imagining it falling and breaking into a million pieces at the bottom.

Then he looks at Bloodhound, who is about to begin crawling down the rope that leads from the very top of the canyon to the very bottom.

"Wait...are you serious?" 

The hunter looks at him, their empty mask holes boring into him.

"Uh...yeah. Ok. Ok."

Mirage grimaces as he grips the rope tightly in both hands. 

He'd never been good at this in school either.

In school, they asked you to shimmy up and down the rope as fast as you could, and he'd always embarrassed himself trying. 

Even with knots tied into the thing, he just couldn't haul himself up. 

His wrists burned, his arms hurt, his fingers were sore. 

Now he clings to the rope for dear life, hating how high up it is, and without a cushion to fall on, like in P.E. class, and hating how slowly he  is progressing down it, with Bloodhound scurrying down the thing as if it were a slide.

They land gracefully in the dirt and look straight up.

At Mirage. 

Only a quarter of the way down. 

"I'm...coming," Mirage calls down.

"'Fall, if you want," Bloodhound calls. "I will catch you."

No.

No way in hell.

Just when he'd thought his ego couldn't be more bruised, suddenly Bloodhound wants him to fall into their arms because he's bad at climbing ropes. 

No way. 

Motivated by his pride, he begins to shimmy faster down the rope, his face tense with concentration, his fingers slippery with sweat. 

When he finally gets close enough to the ground, he lets go of the rope with relief. 

He lands on the ground with a thump, letting the momentum from the fall crumple his legs like paper, sitting his butt on the dirt without reservation, panting heavily. 

"I admire your fortitude," Bloodhound says. "But next time, in say, a more urgent situation, try attaching that clip on your rocket boosters to the line. It will automatically propel you down, just as it does for ziplines that cross horizontally." 

Mirage stares at them for a full minute. 

Then he lets himself flop backwards onto the grass. 

"Just let me die." 

Bloodhound watches him for a little while, looking around cautiously, face turned upwards, then glancing from side to side.

Then they look directly at Mirage.

And they walk over, extending their hand to him. 

"Come now. We will take shelter in this structure." 

Mirage groans.

But he takes their hand, letting them pull him back to his feet.

And he hobbles over to the structure they had suggested, no longer caring if there are holes in the roof or if the floorboards are ripped up or if the painting is chipped, just so long as he can sleep in it. 

* * *

_In his dreams, he sees his mother scolding him for playing pranks on his brothers, putting their hands in bowls full of warm water, tricking them into thinking they slept an entire week by altering their watches and calendars, perfecting his holographic technology and immediately testing it by tossing one off a cliff, and watching his brothers cry, thinking he had killed himself._

_She's cooking at the stove, the way he remembers her always doing._

_His third oldest brother, Talos, the natural cook of the family, desperately trying to stop her from pouring strange, outlandish food into her dishes, or occasionally pulling her sleeve away from the open flames._

_"You've been a naughty boy again, Elliott," she scolds. "Your teachers think you're a showoff."_

_"I've got a lot to show off," he says to her. "I'm very impressive."_

_She laughs. "There's such thing as making too much of an impression."_

_"I don't like the teacher."_

_"And why is that?"_

_"She's mean. She hates us."_

_"One day, you'll look back on your childhood fondly and think, 'Gosh, I miss when life was that simple.'"_

_"Mom!" Talos yelps as the flames burn too high in the pan._

_She absentmindedly shakes it._

_"Besides, you can never know a person completely just from how they act around you. It's all an act. People are so much more than what they appear to be, kiddo. We're all liars. Wonderful little liars, with secrets to hide."_

_She turns away from the stove and gets onto one knee._

_"Promise me that no matter what lies you tell others, you'll always be true to yourself."_

_Little Elliott, sitting on the kitchen floor, clutching his knees, watching his mom and older brother cook, hearing the reassuring sound of his other brothers arguing ferociously outside over whose turn it was with the motorcycle his eldest brother had restored._

_"Ok."_

_"And never lie to your mama!"_

_"Ok."_

_Never lie to me, never lie to me, never lie to me._

_The table shakes._

_The ground shakes._

_He covers his head, scared._

_The kitchen shakes into pieces, the ceiling collapsing, the floor splitting in half, cracks breaking it apart._

_Bombs are dropping overhead, blasting apart rock and sending fragments hurling down to the town below._

_He watches from high up above._

_Mao thumps him on the back._

_"A real showoff, right until the end," he rumbles. "Look at you! A survivor! The only person who deserved to live on this whole stinking backwater planet, huh? The Allfather has truly blessed you."_

_Mao's head is bloody and he's holding Leeta's baby in his hands._

_Leeta's baby, wrapped from head to toe in a bloody blanket._

_"She was a mother."_

_Elliott tries to run, but he can't._

_He just can't._

_Frozen in place, he watches a planet break apart._

_"Welcome to the Frontier Militia, IMC scum," Mao roared._

_Their hideout, a filthy shut down old depleted mining vein, crumbles like his kitchen, all around him._

Mirage wakes up breathing hard, feeling as though he's being crushed alive.

It turns out, it's just the strap of his gun, which he'd somehow looped around his neck. 

He untangles himself from it, surprised at how much he'd moved in his sleep.

Bloodhound is sitting upright, but he doesn't think they are awake judging by the slow rising and falling of their chest.

He stands up as quietly as he can and sneaks out of the hut they had chosen to spend the night in.

The moon is high over head, luminous and yellow, a huge, perfect coin hanging from a canvas of stars.

Castor had had two moons.

"Ugh."

He kicks a nearby rock.

It goes careening through the air and disappears in the grass.

Stupid fucking Castor.

A shitty planet in the middle of nowhere, right on the edge of known space.

Full of backwards hillbillies without a hope in the world of beating a corporate military entity like the IMC.

Backalley bumpkins who could barely reload a weapon, much less fire one.

His stupid brothers got involved in wars they couldn't win too.

And look what had happened to them.

To the boys he used to play with, who would tease him and torment him, but who would also always have his back, and take his side unquestioningly when he needed them. 

Stupid fools, just like he'd always thought, except as it turned out, he wasn't smarter than any of them. 

And, as it turned out, he was the luckiest of the bunch. 

Because unlike them, he actually survived the war he couldn't win. 

He wants to hit something. 

But instead, he snaps his fingers. 

His holo technology activates and a clone is sent running in the direction he had sent it.

A version of himself.

Handsome, charming, preening at attention. 

Also empty, hollow, pathetic. 

It looks like it's really there, but isn't. 

He watches it smile and wink at no one. 

Stupid thing.

"Rather impressive, that hologram." 

Mirage jumps. 

Bloodhound had snuck up on him, somehow managing to come up right behind him without him noticing. 

They sit beside him, staring in the direction of his hologram, which is now waving at no one.

"What are you doing up?" Mirage asks gruffly, not feeling particularly chatty. 

"I am a light sleeper. I heard you move and went to investigate."

"Well... I'm just...testing out my technology. No need to be alarmed, you can go back to sleep."

Bloodhound nods. 

But they don't go back inside.

They stay and watch the hologram vanish.

Watch Mirage send out another one, then another one. 

They run around like ghosts, pale and blue and almost real, almost tangible, but as fake as a scarecrow with a sheet thrown over it. 

Mirage almost expects Bloodhound to say that he shouldn't be doing this, since he's drawing attention to them unnecessarily, but they don't say a word.

They merely watch.

"I turned against them. The Apex Predators. I betrayed them. They were a bunch of assholes." 

He doesn't look at Bloodhound.

He's just going to pretend they aren't even here.

And they might as well not be, right?

He's never going to see them again after this is over.

They don't seem like much of a talker or gossiper, and even if they are, he'll be out of this system the moment they win this thing.

All he has to worry about is their judgment, and even that doesn't matter because he isn't afraid of anyone's judgment.

(Only his own heart's, perhaps). 

"I was on Castor. I met a guy named Caleb. He told me that the Frontier Militia needed as many skilled people as they could get. He said they'd had enough and were going to remove the IMC presence. He warned me that things were going to get ugly, and I'd need to pick a side."

He recalls every wrong he ever witnessed on Castor. 

All the children and teenagers he'd ever seen harassed, mocked, or bullied by mercenaries and soldiers. 

All the women he'd seen, their hands worked to the bone, their backs stiff from sitting in factory stools. 

Their husbands, breathing in radioactive materials, their skin pale and peeling.

"I picked them. I said fuck it, I'll do what's right for a change. And it was so fucking stupid. So fucking dumb of me. Not just picking their side, but telling him. Telling the fucking guy, yes, I'll fight with them. Because you know what he was? What he ended up being? A fucking IMC mole. A little rat that they sent in with the black plague. He squealed and the IMC took me out back to shoot me in the head. The Apex Predators dragged me out to the forest where they put me on my knees and prepared to blast out the back of my skull just like we did to all the dissidents we rounded up. But you know who saved me? The people of Castor. A bunch of...Frontier hicks with nothing but knives and some energy weapons, with a box of ammo, each, came. They came and saved me from the 'best mercenaries in the galaxy.' And then they took me in. Gave me a second home."

His voice is higher-pitched and tight.

On some level, he's embarrassed, ashamed of revealing this much to a stranger. 

But he also doesn't care.

Because he can't see Bloodhound's face. He doesn't have to watch the distaste or anger or sadness appear in their eyes. Doesn't have to know if they feel sorry for him or feel nothing but contempt for him. 

He knows next to nothing about them.

They are an impartial judge whose verdict doesn't even matter.

"We fought the dirty bastards. Day in, day out, we fought an impossible war. I trained them the best I could. I told them what to do, what not to do. It was so easy, handing them weapons, telling them where to shoot. It was so easy, making them believe they were soldiers. Heroes in a war that would one day end with their victory. The champions of a history textbook, writ large. I filled their heads with stories of my time fighting. I comforted them when they were feeling hopeless, brought them medical supplies, food, weaponry, ammo. I got a kick out of screwing with the IMC because fuck the establishment, fuck corporations, fuck the whole universe, I know what's right. I thought I knew everything back then...just like when I was a little kid, I was so convinced I was smarter than everyone in the room...and then they..."

Mirage closes his eyes, unable to continue looking at the stars anymore, knowing that his gaze will be drawn towards that star, to Castor's star.

Visible from here.

"Nothing was left. Nothing. They won because they did it. They took the easy way out. What did they have to lose? Whole military presence left. Just civilians. Just the very people they were fighting for resources...and there were no more resources anymore. They'd just found a new planet outside of the Frontier. New resources. New population of humans, so happy, fat, fed with the IMC's lies, with their propaganda promising an exciting new world filled with opportunity. Travel to space on our stipend, settle the alien frontier! Become the ancestors our space exploring descendants will be proud of! They didn't need the people of Castor anymore. They didn't need Castor. Didn't need any of it. And what do they do with shit they don't need? Scrape it into the dust bin. Ha ha!" 

Mirage laughs. 

He laughs and laughs and laughs at himself. 

He snaps half a dozen holograms into existence, all of which form a circle around him and laugh.

_"You'll always know what the right thing to do is. Guilt is your guide, Elliott. If you feel guilty, then you know what you've done is wrong. Don't be afraid to listen to your heart, even when it whispers that the right path will not be easy."_

"Doing the right thing is supposed to make you feel good, or some shit. But it doesn't. It makes you feel like a scumbag, because you can't always do the right thing. And sometimes, the right thing is fucking wrong." 

The holograms vanish, their bright empty eyes disappearing into darkness. 

"I ran. Before they blasted the planet to pieces, I hid on a freighter filled with parasites. Journalists, dying to get the next biggest scoop. Well they got it. They got front row tickets to the worst show in the universe. My friends, people I trained, I worked with, I lived with, I fought so hard for, were all down there. They couldn't evacuate. They couldn't come with me. They had nowhere to go. They were defenseless. And I left them. I left them there, and I watched a planet crack in half. I watched their world dissolve, and I did nothing. I did nothing but watch."

He swallows, his throat unbelievably dry. 

"But whatever, right? Guess it was their time, huh? As the Allfather wills it? Nothing they could do about it, right? Fought as hard they could. Died honorably, never giving up. Hurrah."

He shakes his head suddenly.

"God, I could use a fucking drink." 

"Mirage..."

But whatever Bloodhound had been about to say will never be known.

The next thing Mirage knows, he's flat on the ground, Bloodhound's body covering his. 

"What the...?"

But then he realizes.

People are screaming off in the distance and he can hear gunshots.

"They found us?" he says quickly to Bloodhound. 

"No. They most likely ran into one another, started a fire fight, and now it's coming to us," Bloodhound says hoarsely. They roll off of Mirage's body, looking in the direction of all the noise. "We must relocate."

"Good idea." 

They both scramble to their feet. 

"Which way?" Mirage asks. 

"Th-" but before they can finish even a word, they duck as bullets whiz by the two of them. 

Mirage instinctively runs for cover in the nearest building. 

Bloodhound splits off from him, and he doesn't have the time to question why. 

He slams the double doors shut behind him. 

Bullets pass through the broken and dysfunctional windows.

He crawls on his hands and knees, picking up ammo and another P2020. He clutches the gun tightly in his palms, prepared to shoot at whoever comes through the door.

But to his shock and displeasure, a grenade comes flying into the building.

"Fuck!" 

He rolls to the exit doors and manages to get out just before the grenade goes off in the hut, blowing off the roof and blasting a hole in the floor. 

He charges off for the next nearest building, but to his horror, another squad is also pelting towards the same building.

And they're bringing another squad with them, one of which has a choked-up Peacekeeper that glows menacingly in the distance, lighting up the night with its deadly power. 

One of the retreating squad members goes down,  hit from the back with bullets. 

One is hit in the leg, but keeps stumbling towards the shelter.

The last one is unharmed.

Inside, this one slams into the also retreating and also hiding Mirage.

He dives at them, simply trying to melee them into submission, in a panic forgetting his gun, but they fight back, firing with their Prowler. 

It slams against his armor, but thankfully, the blue armor holds. 

But as the man reloads, out of the corner of his eye, Mirage can see the other squad closing in fast. 

He wants to run, but he has a strong feeling that he'll only get shot in the back if he does. 

He brings out the gun he'd picked up and figures what the hell, might as well get at least some good shots in before I die. 

But as he accepts his fate, as the other squad catches up, just inches from knocking the door down, he hears a familiar voice crying, "I am Blóðhundur!"

And to his shock (and fear, if he's totally honest), the floorboards tremble.

And a single gloved hand shoots up, breaking through the cheap wooden floor and snatching his attacker's right ankle and yanking him down through the shattered remains of the floorboards. And while he watches, Bloodhound, because of course it was Bloodhound, sinks their knife into the defenseless man's armpit. 

Four times. 

Sliding right into the heart. 

The man's body falls through the hole, limp as a sock, his head flopping grotesquely against the ground with a dull thud. 

"Come," Bloodhound urges.

And Mirage, stunned but learning to just go with it, jumps down through it as well.

Morbidly landing on the corpse of the man Bloodhound had just stabbed.

"Gross," he grimaces. 

Footsteps thunder overhead as the attacking squad bursts in. 

They heard gunshots as the trio shoots at the injured, knocked down team mate of the poor unfortunate sod who'd just been pulled through the floor. 

Bloodhound, impatient, seizes his hand and begins to run. 

Mirage is forced to pelt at top speed to keep up with them. 

But as tired as he is, and as emotionally wrought as he had been before, he is strangely exhilarated by this.

Here he was, thinking he'd just spilled one of his greatest shames (not his greatest shame, but one of many great shames of his life) to a complete stranger in the dead of night, and made things awkward.

Turns out, it doesn't matter when you could die at any second, and your partner in murder is an absolute beast and doesn't care about you as a person, as long as you don't fuck things up too much for them in the ring. 

He could probably tell Bloodhound anything in the world, anything at all, and they'd just stare at him with that mask without a word. 

All that matters to them is winning this Game.

And now that story time is over, he can go back to thinking about that, and only that, too. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Bloodhound was using their ultimate.
> 
> Yes, I will go into more detail about that, and Mirage WILL notice it better next time.
> 
> YES, I wish I could fucking destroy floorboards while using Bloodhound's ultimate. 
> 
> It would be so cool to drag someone through the floor and just, fucking, gut them. 
> 
> In the video game, I mean.


	10. Let's Head This Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I have changed the tags to say Bloodhound/ Mirage...
> 
> The reason for this is because I lack self control.

"What-what is this place?" Mirage asks.

In the dead of night, he can't see any features on this building, only able to vaguely trace its outline in the almost complete darkness, only moonlight illuminating landmarks.

"Market," Bloodhound murmurs. "Hold on."

Mirage squints, barely able to see even them in the darkness.

Then he hears a light clunk.

After a moment or two, Bloodhound comes back to him.

"Come."

The masked hunter takes his hand and lightly pulls him in the right direction.

The clunk had been a heavy white door, which he only sees when Bloodhound reaches for it and slides it open.

It rolls up onto the ceiling with a loud intrusive clank. 

Mirage takes a few steps forward as Bloodhound closes the door behind them. 

It does appear to be a market, with umbrellas and little stalls in the center of the large room. Small emergency lights are placed strategically around the room, showing the stairs leading down to the market floor and the upper level, which is made up of small rooms with windows looking down on the square filled with little tents. 

"What do they sell here? Human corpses?" Elliott asks dryly, noticing a patch of ominous brown on the floor near a blue umbrella. 

"Market can be...something of a bloodbath if multiple people land here at once." Bloodhound walks slowly in the direction of one of the outer rim rooms. "Come. We must find new weapons." 

He helps them look, but all they find are two boxes of heavy ammo, a wingman, which Mirage takes, and an R-99, which Bloodhound takes. 

"There's no light ammo around here," Mirage says. "All you'll have is one magazine to fire at enemies."

"Then that is simply how the Allfather wills it," Bloodhound murmurs. 

Mirage rolls his eyes in the darkness. 

They end up making camp in one of the rooms on the upper floor. Mirage grabs several dirty blue blankets from the floor below. He comes back to the room to find Bloodhound leaning against the wall, hands in their lap, looking off, presumably, into space. 

"Want a blanket?" he asks.

Bloodhound shakes their head.

Mirage shrugs and crawls under one of the battered, rickety tables that's pushed up against the wall. 

He takes the blankets and makes something of a nest for himself, putting two on the floor, to make a slight cushion, and another to pull over him.

"They're probably infected with lice, bed bugs, any pest in the known galaxy, but after this thing is over, I'll just take a shower," Mirage jokes. 

He looks hopefully at Bloodhound, but the hunter betrays no sign that they had even heard him. 

He lets out a sigh and lets his eyes close. 

"What are you going to do, after the Game is over? Presuming you live, of course." 

Mirage's eyes slide back open, even though he's staring directly up into a table, and it's too dark to really see anything. 

"Well... I'll take that prize money and that fame and probably head back to the inner solar system. I've had enough of the Frontier." 

Bloodhound is nothing but a shadow to him.

A huge, lurking shadow, sitting in the corner, still but at the same time, almost shaking (his eyes playing tricks in the darkness, no doubt). 

"Are you ashamed of yourself?" Bloodhound asks evenly, their voice betraying no emotion. 

Mirage shifts in his blankets. 

"No." 

"Then what are you running from?" 

"Running? I'm not running. I'm just tired of living in squalor. There's nothing out here. Nothing to do, except deadly blood sports like this. I'm tired of roughing it. I wanna be pampered again. Live in a high tech city full of the most advanced holo technology in the world. Eat the best foods from all over, sleep in a real bed, pay my rent, do some shit mechanic job. It's not so crazy, why do you think I'm running from something?"

Bloodhound doesn't respond immediately, which makes Mirage feel uncomfortable, queasy, like a kid being interrogated by a teacher whose homework he hadn't done. 

"You told me that you fought on Castor. With the people of Castor." 

Mirage feels that ache again. 

He thumps his chest with his fist as though that would beat the feeling out. 

"And then you watched them die." 

Bloodhound's voice sounds...different.

Almost softer, somehow. 

"There is no shame in being a survivor."

"A survivor? Ha!" Mirage scoffs. "A coward. That's all I was. That's not who I am now, though. I mean. I know we've been running from people all day, but. That's because we're a man down. What we're doing is logical. Tactical. We're trying to win this game so we can all go home, 10x richer and famous through out the Frontier and maybe even back home. That's not what a coward does. A coward pretends he's something he's not. A coward says he's a hero, and then lets the people he's trying to save die in his place. I'm not a coward anymore. I'm just a lying two-faced rat just like everyone else on the Frontier, the IMC, the citizens, the Apex Predators. You know, I dig the mask? We all wear them, but you have the audacity, the actual nerve not to pretend yours is your true face?" 

He scratches his neck irritably, hating how scratchy and uncomfortable these blankets are, but needing them to sleep. 

"I respect it a lot. I know it seems kind of paradoxical, to say someone wearing a mask is showing their true face, but it makes sense, I think. The mask is more you than whatever's under it, right?"

He waits. 

Bloodhound exhales.

"You are a very strange man, Mirage."

He giggles, finger gunning in the darkness at his invisible companion.

"Am I bothering you? You can tell me to shut up."

"I don't want to."

"Be careful what you wish for, I could go on for hours."

"As long as you tell me the truth, I do not mind."

Mirage pauses.

"What do you mean? I've told you the truth. I always tell the truth, even when I'm lying."

"Mirage, you may talk a lot, but you also say very little at the same time," Bloodhound says patiently. "You told me a great deal about yourself, but you're still keeping much more from me. This is acceptable, as you and I are not friends, only allies by happenstance. I will not pry into your life, or try and understand you."

"Well...thank you? I won't try to understand you either," Mirage says, half-jokingly, half-seriously. 

"Thank you." 

They pause. 

He pauses too. 

Then a moment later, he can't help but laugh at the absurdity of their conversation, of their situation, crouching in a marketplace room, him wrapped in itchy, gross, thin blankets and them leaning against the wall as though it were comfortable.

As though hearing his thoughts, he hears Bloodhound shifting, laying their body flat on the ground.

And he could've sworn he'd also heard Bloodhound let out a quick huff of air, the slightest sound of amusement. 

"A tracker that keeps their nose out of other people's businesses. I like it." 

"Yes," Bloodhound says almost pleasantly. He hears the telltale scrape of Bloodhound's boot against the floor. When they speak again, their voice is more somber, lower in quality. "But I do one have question. And it is a prying question."

"Go ahead and shoot. I've already overshared today, might as well do some more."

He wiggles his hips a little, as though moving will somehow make the cold, hard floor conform to his body weight like a foam mattress.

"Do you believe that you can leave your memories of Castor behind, and the guilt you inherited, simply by leaving the system where they happened?"

"Nope," Mirage says breezily, surprising Bloodhound with the swiftness of his response. "But there's no harm in trying, right?" 

"There might be."

"Are you a therapist?"

"No."

"Sort of an anti-therapist, I guess. Therapists are supposed to teach you ways to not kill yourself, and your job is to...kill other people. 'Amicably' convince them to die."

"Do you want to die, Mirage?" Bloodhound asks quietly.

It's a soft question, swift, painless at first, like a dagger politely slipping through your ribs. 

Mirage is almost taken off guard by it. 

But he manages to catch himself before he accidentally reveals the truth to Bloodhound. 

"Every day. But I love to look good, and death just doesn't look good on me." 

He's not sure, but he thinks Bloodhound is now turning away from him, facing the wall. 

"In a battle royale, one must survive to win. The rule that one must win to survive removes the element of choice from its participants. We are here willingly. We kill because we want to, not because we have to. No one is here to be saved. No one here has any regrets. No one here has anything they are not willing to lose."

"Beautiful," Mirage says, clapping. "My favorite slam poetry of the night." 

Bloodhound's voice sounds amused as they respond. 

"Do not die here, Elliott."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

"We are going to win."

"I hear that."

Bloodhound talks no more and he gets the feeling that they've said all they wanted to say and want to sleep now. 

But just as he starts to drift off, he's brought back, abruptly but not too harshly, as Bloodhound's voice is quiet, so soft that he almost doesn't hear it. 

"You do not belong here." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just like all of my platonic AND romantic relationships in real life, Imma take this one slow. 
> 
> This has become a slow burn miragehound fanfic, and it wasn't even going to be that. I was just going to slow burn a friendship. But buckle up kiddos, we're shooting for the stars instead.


	11. Shots Fired! They're Hittin' Me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are wonderful. Thank you all for the wonderful feedback *throws all my tootsie roll wrappers in the air. 
> 
> I am deeply fond of both Elliott Witt and Bloodhound, and they're some fucked up people in this fanfic, maybe in canon too.

Mirage is awoken quite abruptly by the pressure of a gloved hand over his mouth.

He panics, legs kicking, hands reaching up to claw at the arm over his face, thinking he's being suffocated in his sleep.

"It is me," Bloodhound says quickly. "There is someone here." 

Mirage, heart pumping, settles down, but only a fraction.

Bloodhound releases his face, gesturing with their hand out the window.

It is now light out, but it can't be later than 6 am, as the sunlight is weak, the sun not fully emerged yet. 

Mirage looks around, squinting in the low light, but then he sees movement. 

Two women are walking over the center tents. 

One is the girl he recognizes as the thief who took his Mozambique at the beginning of the Game. 

The other is the former legend, the pale-eyed woman with the dark hair. 

They both appeared to have dropped in from the ceiling, their jump kits slowing their fall, both wearing backpacks. The dark haired woman has a Havoc and the young black girl has a G7 Scout on her back. 

"I know her," Mirage whispers.

Bloodhound shakes their head, putting a finger to their mouthpiece.

Mirage quiets himself, watching the two nervously.

Bloodhound points at the door nearest them, motioning for Mirage to follow them.

They ease out of the room slowly, carefully. 

Mirage follows, painfully aware of how noisy he is compared to the cat-like, light-footed Bloodhound, who doesn't make a single sound. 

They crouch, both glancing furtively at the women. 

The two are walking together, talking quietly, too far away to be heard.

Bloodhound pulls out their R-99. 

Mirage understands immediately, pulling out his wingman. 

They gesture at Mirage, pointing towards the side of Market that the women are approaching. 

Then they gesture at themselves and point towards the side they are walking away from. 

_Draw their fire to the front and I will flank from the back._

Brilliant.

Mirage, still crouching, waits for Bloodhound to crawl into position.

The women come closer and closer, their voices becoming more audible as they move.

"Ajay, I'm telling you, the Havoc is super powerful with a Turbocharger-" 

"It's faster, Wraith, but still unreliable! You're better off with a Scout, or even a Longbow. Or a Kraber, if you're lucky..."

"I've never seen a Kraber fired in the ring. No one's been lucky enough to get it before I killed them." 

"Always such a bragger!"

The younger woman laughs at her own joke. 

Mirage sees Bloodhound is ready, and he braces himself, adrenaline pumping.

He points his finger right in front of them. 

But to his shock, the woman, Wraith, suddenly turns and looks right at him. 

"Someone's here," she says.  

Mirage ducks. 

One of his decoys runs out right in front of the two women.

They react quickly, the shorter one, Ajay yanking her Scout fluidly off her back and firing at the decoy's fleeing legs. 

It vanishes immediately. 

Mirage, wanting to take advantage of their momentary confusion, fires down on their heads. 

They manage to duck just in time, Ajay hopping up and over a market stall, and Wraith hiding just around the corner. 

Bloodhound bears down on them from behind, R-99 ready. 

But then suddenly Wraith yells out, "Behind!"

And she and Ajay both turn on Bloodhound. 

Mirage, not willing to let Bloodhound get ganged up on from two different directions, throws himself down into the lower level. 

He shoots at the dark haired girl with the wingman, but to his amazement, she vanishes before his eyes, only a trail of white light left where she'd been standing. It rushes at him, then swerves beside him. 

And the woman appears again. 

She punches him in the face. 

He hits the ground hard with the force behind the blow, rolling several feet into a pile of trash bags and broken up cardboard boxes. 

She draws her Havoc, its muzzle glowing as she charges it up. 

But suddenly, a dozen Mirages pop up out of nowhere, surrounding him and allowing him to cloak.

The woman shoots at them, but he manages to dodge her shots by rolling out of the way. 

Still invisible, he runs towards the sound of gunfire. 

Bloodhound is crouching in a corner, in a shootout with Ajay, who is hiding in the opposite corner behind a box, occasionally peeking out to shoot rapidly at his team mate. 

Mirage heads toward Ajay, intending to surprise her and gun her down the moment he uncloaks. She stops to reload and he steps forward, preparing to strike. 

But he hears a strange zapping sound behind him. 

And suddenly, Wraith is in front of him again, her white eyes murderous, a sinister smile on her lips. 

"Did you think you could run from me?"

And she shoves him backwards. 

And he falls, but not to the floor.

Instantly, the world is rushing, weaving around him, suddenly black and white and blurry. 

Sounds are amplified, but at the same time, muted, strange, distorted voices whispering all around him, above, below, and from every side at once. 

He has only a split second to experience it before it's over.

And  _now_ he's falling on his ass.

And Wraith is beating the shit out of him, punching him across the face and kicking him hard in the gut. 

Some distance away, Bloodhound charges at the young woman, knowing that her weapon is a mid to long range sniper and that they can possibly get the drop on her if they move quickly. 

It is a dangerous tactic, but they are not going to sit by and wait for their opponent to switch weapons. 

They jump around the box and shoot for the head.

The woman barely manages to avoid dying instantaneously, rolling out of the way and kicking the box between her and the masked hunter.

Their bullets still tear through her side, ripping through skin and splattering blood all over the walls. 

Bloodhound aims the R-99 at the girl again, intending not to miss this time.

But suddenly, a canister comes arching over the railing of the upper level.

And it splits into three smoke grenades, which completely engulf half of the lower level. 

Bloodhound falls back warily. 

They activate Eye of the Allfather, trying to see what is happening. 

The girl groans and scrambles away.

A spray, tall, older looking black woman leaps down before them. She is hidden by the smoke, but Bloodhound can still see her using the special lenses of their mask to penetrate their cover. 

They hesitate, wondering if they should fire into the smoke, possibly kill both of them. 

After all, they do not know that Bloodhound can see through the smoke.

And even if they did, it's not like either of them can see through it too. 

Their fingers itch at the trigger of their gun. 

But then, they heard Mirage yell out, and the sound of more gunshots. 

And they know that they cannot waste the ammo, nor can they risk giving away their position and allowing the two women to spray into the gas, and potentially hit them. 

So they turn away and sprint towards the sound of the yell.

Wraith fires energy shot after energy shot at Mirage, who scrambles around corners avoiding her. He wants to shoot back, but is afraid that if he stops moving, she'll be able to hit him with one of the enormous blasts from that energy cannon. 

He dives into a room that's completely across the giant room from where he and Bloodhound had spent the night. 

She bursts in, and he ducks below her gun as it fires.

The blast of energy from the weapon shatters the glass. 

He's now close enough to seize the Havoc. 

He pulls her body closer to him, and punches her in the face. 

The gun slides out of her hand as she grunts and he yanks it away. 

He aims his newly obtained gun at her and fires, but in his panic, he completely whiffs the shot. And the recoil from the weapon jerks his hands out of place, almost knocking him off his feet.  

She dodges his fire easily and vanishes in front of him again. 

He makes sure to watch her light this time, tracking its movement as it rushes at him, then veers off course to come up behind him, but he isn't quick enough to react. 

She knocks the gun out of his hands. 

It falls to the concrete floor with a clatter. Mirage lets out a surprised yell, but it is quickly stifled by a grunt as suddenly the woman is on top of him, his back landing painfully hard into the ground, her knees digging into his waist, a beautiful knife like an arrowhead in her hand.

Without even thinking, only reacting instinctively, he catches her hand by the wrist as it tries to plunge the dagger into his neck. 

She bears down on him with a lot of force, the dagger moving slowly but surely down to his throat. He fights her as best he can, but the woman possess inhuman strength, and he might as well being trying to stop a car from rolling over him. 

"You lost this time." 

He gulps as the tip scrapes against his neck, drawing blood. 

But then Wraith looks up, her pale eyes wide. 

She dives off of him just as Bloodhound bursts through the door, R-99 blazing. 

The dark-haired woman disappears again. 

When she appears again, she has a RE-45 Auto. 

Bloodhound fires at her, but their gun is out of ammo. 

She smiles, raising her weapon. 

But before she can fire, a glint of silver appears in Bloodhound's hand. 

And Mirage watches as the hunter launches it at Wraith. 

She flinches, but doesn't manage to dodge this one. 

The arc star sticks to her skin and she screams out as it shocks her, freezing her in place. 

Bloodhound takes advantage of this and suddenly Mirage is airborne, hoisted on their shoulders in a fireman's carry. 

They then charge out of the facility, Wraith still recovering from being arc starred, and Ajay and the other woman still on the lower level, smoke still hanging thick in the air. 

"Shit!" Ajay, Lifeline, yells. "Did they get away, Wraith?"

"Yes," her team mate groans. "They arc starred me, sorry." 

"Were there only two of them?" their third squad mate, Bangalore, asks. She's still crouched over Lifelife, who's still injured, but healing quickly as her healing drone patches her up. The masked hunter had torn a few holes in her side and stomach, but they're already filling themselves, muscles reconnecting and skin re-growing and binding itself neatly back up. 

"Yes." 

"Well that's embarrassing," Lifeline says. "But to be fair, all those weird decoy things the banana guy sent out were real interesting, weren't they? It was like fighting ten people at once."

Wraith frowns as she void runs over to them, appearing beside Lifeline and crouching to survey her injuries. "You ok, kid?"

"Just a scratch, I'll be fine."

"Which way did they go?" Bangalore asks Wraith sternly. The dark-haired specter of a woman looks sharply up at the austere older woman. 

"Skull Town. We should pursue them, there are only two of them-"

"Lifelife is not healed fully yet."

"She can stay behind. You and I can take them," Wraith says. "It would be easy, they're low on supplies and have no third team mate. Easy kills." 

"No," Bangalore says firmly. "There's no need. Another squad will take them out if that's the case. We need to get closer to the ring. We have a lot of dangerous ground to cover and I don't want to waste resources trying to secure kills on a squad that isn't a huge threat to us."

"Every squad is a threat to us," Wraith says. "I can do it myself-"

"You will not," Bangalore says, her eyes narrowing. "Stay with the team. If they survive, we'll have our revenge later."

The two women glare at one another, the dark-haired white woman's chin set stubbornly, her sallow skin tight, her eyes narrow, and the black woman's eyes cold and assertive, glaring right back at her without looking away or even blinking once. 

Lifeline rolls her own eyes. 

"You think the air around the Havoc is charged, you ain't never been in a room with the two of you before," she says. 

 Both women blink as though Lifeline's voice had brought them back to their senses. 

Wraith's body relaxes, her entire demeanor softening as she looks down at Lifeline. 

"I got ahead of myself," she says. "That Bloodhound took a few bites out of you, huh?"

"Yeah, but I ain't afraid of dogs," Lifeline says with a laugh. "And they were all bark and no real bite! Ajay Che will be back up in no time, 'member me tell you!"

"They will die," Bangalore says stiffly. She does not apologize, but she does look less harsh, and more relenting as she looks at Wraith. "But I was late in arriving and poorly positioned. A mistake on my part. Next time, we will engage them rather than the other way around." 

The other woman nods. 

"I know I can count on you two," Wraith replies. 

Far off from their squad, Bloodhound lets Mirage down off of their shoulders.

"Well that was...exciting," Mirage says, popping up off the ground and trying to regain a semblance of his dignity by brushing his wavy hair back. "Thanks for the save back there, that got pretty crazy." 

"I need ammo," Bloodhound says. 

"Same. Where can we go to get some?"

The masked hunter actually lets out an audible sigh, sounding tired for the first time since Mirage has met them. 

"Over there. Skull Town. But it is a dangerous place, one that I do not-"

"Sounds great," Mirage interrupts cheerfully. "Now that I'm all woken up, I feel like I have to do something with all of this adrenaline. Might as well get into another firefight, right?" 

He marches off, one of his emitters bent up out of shape on his arms. 

Bloodhound stares at him in disbelief for a few moments, but then lets out another world weary sigh. 

They catch up to him and grab his shoulder. 

"Not that way. This way." 

They push him in the right direction. 

"Lovely. Can't wait. I wonder what could possibly await us at a place named Skull Town?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> \- Bloodhound can see through Bangalore's smoke grenades, but didn't kill either Bangalore or Lifeline because they did not have enough ammo to do it, and even if they did, Banglore or Lifeline could've shot back, even blindly, and gotten enough damage on them to make sure they couldn't help Mirage. Besides. I like Lifeline and Bangalore. They don't deserve that. 
> 
> \- I know it seems harsh, but... yeah, this is a battle royale. you kill everyone you come across. seems rough that i had wraith beat the shit out of mirage, but...that's how it goes. 
> 
> \- also the reason wraith was using so much hand to hand combat instead of shooting was because the havoc charges up slowly, and mirage was using a wingman, which is a close range weapon that does a ton of damage. She can't switch weapons the way you do in game, you know, instantly, so she was stuck with the havoc for a bit. 
> 
> -also, unrelated to the events of the story, I either play Apex or write Apex fanfiction. I genuinely enjoy doing both of them so much that if you ever wonder why I'm not updating, the answer is usually that I'm playing Apex. And if I'm not playing Apex, I'm thinking about its lore. So yeah. I'm a mess.


	12. I'm Down

Skull Town is an ugly little blot on the already bland and distasteful desert biome. 

Mirage kicks at the sand irritably, hating how he can already feel it settling into his hair, filling his shoes and getting into every fold of his clothes. 

From what he can see of the "town" it's just a pathetic huddle of metal buildings with tin roofs and mismatched tents with ugly faded colors. 

It's sitting in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by sand dunes. The strange, enormous rib cage of some huge, mysterious beast lies buried in sand beside it, casting long shadows in rippling stripes over its structures. 

"I need light ammo, you need heavy. We need more weapons, and we need to recharge our shields. We will leave Skull Town as quickly as possible and head for Bunker immediately," Bloodhound says. They point west, opposite the still rising sun. "Do you see that shadow between the mountains? There is an underpass, a tunnel between them that leads to Bunker. It's an old underground laboratory. Caustic always goes there first because he enjoys setting up gas traps within it and catching unsuspecting opponents in there. He has many supplies that he needs to gather and traps to set. That is why he often goes off alone." 

"Ok. Makes sense. Just wish we could be full-staffed," Mirage grumbles, whacking at flies that swarm around his head. He's starting to really sweat in this heat. The swamp's humidity had been bad, but at least there had been some tree cover.

Today, the sun is high overhead and its light beats down on his face. Heat rises from the sand, causing sweat to collect under his armpits and in between his thighs, rubbing together uncomfortably as he walks. 

Bloodhound is wearing much more than he is, yet they seem completely unaffected as they walk. 

God, he hates walking in sand. 

When they finally get close to Skull Town, and it feels like it takes forever because the town just doesn't seem to get any closer, he has to yank his boots off and shake them out. 

Bloodhound watches for a moment, then says lightly, with some amusement: "You're just going to get more sand in them." 

"Yeah, but at least we can start over again from scratch," Mirage grumbles. "There's more sand than foot in these things!"

Bloodhound lets out a sharp breath of air that might be a laugh.

Mirage grins at their back as they walk away.

He walks quickly through the ramshackle buildings of Skull Town, taking the right as Bloodhound takes the left. It's dead silent out here, nothing but the sound of wind and sand shifting around them. He is cautious as he crawls through room after room, his boots clanging loudly on the cheaply made floors. There is sand in here too, as people had probably dragged it in while looting the place. 

It's mostly cleared out, but he does manage to find one odd supply box, nestled in the shadow of one of the thin gray walls surrounding the town. It has three boxes of heavy rounds, a single thermite grenade, and a hop up that won't fit his wingman. 

"Thank the Allfather," Mirage groans. 

His luck doesn't end there either. 

There's a Peacekeeper lying abandoned underneath a half closed metal sheet door that he comes across, with two boxes of shotgun ammo in the adjacent outdoor stall. 

He seizes it and is shocked to find it has a precision choke already attached.

"Oh baby, come to Papa," he whimpers, clutching it to his chest happily. 

He walks back outside, glancing around. 

"Hound?" he calls. "Hound, you ready to go?"

He glances around, but doesn't see his team mate. He ducks down, feeling rather uncomfortable being in such an open environment with only the poorly made buildings for cover. 

He crawls over to the nearest wall and carefully peers out. 

Nothing out there but sand and some ravens. 

One of which looks familiar.

It hops over to him, cawing somewhat aggressively at him.

"Mjolnir?" he asks. 

The bird squawks. 

"Er...Odin? Loki? Steve? I dunno. I forgot. You're the Hound's bird, right?"

He offers his finger to the bird. 

It snaps at him.

He draws his hand back just in time, smiling broadly.

"Yeah, I remember you too. How's it going?"

The bird hops closer to him, beak snapping at him as though it were trying to communicate with him. 

"What's wrong?"

The other ravens seem antsy as well.

He approaches them. They scatter, taking off across the desert fields, flapping rapidly and soaring upwards on warm desert winds. 

And then he sees what they had been inspecting.

A pair of fingers. 

He begins to dig at the fingers, unearthing a hand, then an arm.

Then a shoulder.

A man is lying spread-eagle on the ground, a thin layer of sand hiding him from Mirage's initial view. His eyes are glassy and empty, staring into nothingness, his body still warm. 

Blood still leaking from his chest, which is riddled with bullet holes. 

Mirage grimaces.

"Ugh," he says. "You had a rough go of it today, didn't ya?" 

He flips the body over and begins to tug his backpack off of him.

"Nothing personal, dude, but you don't really need this anymore," he grunts. He glances around once again to make sure there aren't any enemies nearby and then scuttles back to the nearest Skull Town building. 

In the backpack, he finds a few med kits, more shotgun ammo, a beautiful golden digital threat for his wingman, some shield cells, and a box of light ammo. 

"This is for Bloodhound," he says to himself, fingering the box of light ammo. "The rest is for me." He begins to recharge his shields. 

"Mirage?"

Bloodhound is calling him from somewhere nearby. It sounds as though their voice is coming from his left. He glances out the window and sees them waiting beside the wall to the west, their back to him, facing the direction they'd said Bunker was in. 

He's about to crawl out the window and join them, but then he decides to leave through the door, because he's not an animal, and he did just spend the whole night sleeping on a hard linoleum floor, and his left buttock does hurt just a little bit. 

He inches the door open. 

And then flinches as a bright, sharp silver object comes hurling at his face. 

He manages to shut the door just in time. 

It embeds itself into the metal instead of his face.

He stares at it stupidly for a second, not registering exactly what's wrong with the picture just yet.

And then it hits him.

"Fuck! Bloodhound!"

The star explodes and the door is suddenly hot with electricity.

It blasts him back, off his feet and onto his ass. He yelps in pain, rubbing his lower back, his hair standing straight up, his body shaking from being shocked. 

He is then forced to scramble back to his feet as the door is blown off its hinges.

A huge, impressively muscled dark-skinned Polynesian-looking man walks through the hole where the door had been, his massive physique filling the narrow space. His face is round and a little wild, kind wrinkles around his eyes, which are rambunctious and eager. 

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" 

Mirage turns tail and runs. 

Well, he tries.

A wiry young man with wild black hair and thick black side burns leaps in through the window behind him, an Eva-8 Auto clutched in his hands. 

"Caught someone without their team," the big man in front of him booms, his voice cheerful, strangely soothing. He reminds Mirage of a kind uncle that he'd had, who wasn't really his uncle, but was a close friend of his mother's, and who'd always brought him and his brothers fun gifts from his travels. Who sometimes did irresponsible things like give his oldest brother his first taste of beer, or let his second oldest brother take his star cruiser out for a joy ride, but who was still a good guy with a heart of gold. 

Which is a nice thought, except this man, who sounds like his uncle, is holding a VK-47 Flatline to his face.  

"It's a shame, brother, but it's nothing personal."

He raises the gun and a protective energy shield glows from the folds of his thick arm pads. 

So even if Mirage could pull out his gun fast enough, he'd still have to shoot through that thing. 

Only one thing he can do, then. 

He ducks as the man begins to shoot at him.

His bullets bounce off Mirage's newly recharged shields. 

And Mirage dives to the ground.

And throws out a clone, which clutches his heart dramatically on his knees. 

The big man tilts his head, staring at the clone.

Then he lets out a deep bellowing laugh. 

"A trick of the light! Quite clever! Well played!"

Mirage rolls out the window, cloaked. 

But the man's eyes are sharp.

He sees him and raises his weapon again. 

Bullets pepper Mirage's shield. 

He pelts through tent poles, ducking and weaving as the enemy squad takes chase.

But just as he thinks he's lost them, diving around a corner and making a mad dash for one of the walls around the town, he feels something seize the back of his suit.

And then he's being hauled back.

He hits the ground with a dull thump (he's been falling down a lot today, and he is  _not_ liking it). 

"Hi, there!" a cheerful, robotic voice says to him. 

A round, inquisitive face peers down at him. 

It  _is_ a robot.

A skinny blue robot with a smiley face plastered across a screen on its chest. 

Mirage blinks, wondering if he'd been knocked silly by his third-fourth? time today. 

"You don't seem very good at this," the robot says brightly. A grappling hook shoots from its arm. 

It grabs him by the cloth covering his chest and yanks him close. 

And the robot's metal fist socks him hard in the jaw, its hard edges ripping a cut into his cheek. 

Mirage's face hits the sand hard. He can already feel it swelling, feels like at least two of his teeth have been knocked loose by this tin can piece of shit.

Speaking of which, it tilts its robotic head at him. 

"Sorry about that. But you were going to kill my friends!" 

It raises its Hemlok. 

Mirage kicks at its spindly legs. 

It teeters uncertainly and as a result, misses its shot. 

He scrambles back to his feet.

"Please don't go, new enemy!"

But of course he doesn't listen. 

He pelts across the town, conscious of the sound of clanking footsteps behind him. 

"Bloodhound! We've got company!" he yells.

His long limbs skitter to a stop as he sees the big man again with his gun pointed in his direction. He flinches. 

But the man isn't aiming at him. 

He's raising his shield. 

And the man's forced to retreat as a grenade lands in front of his feet.

Mirage's eyes widen as the bright red lights of the grenade flash, warning him that it's about to explode. 

His feet kick at the sand as he scrambles to push himself away from the blast. 

He just barely avoids its radius. Mirage wants to make a mad dash all the way back to the opposite side of Skull Town, if necessary, but instead of charging out of this little hell hole, he runs into something solid.

A hard, warm body. 

The third man, who howls as he knocks him to the ground. 

They roll around in the sand, yelling, kicking, and struggling. 

Mirage manages to punch him twice in the face, dazing him with the force of his blows, and scrambles back to his feet. He bolts away. 

But the other man is quick on the uptake too. 

He raises his gun and shoots at Mirage's fleeing legs.

Only, his bullets pass right through them. And the clone shakes, dissolving into small blue lights. 

The man blinks in shock.

"Tricked you."

And Mirage shoots him from the right, where he'd actually moved to, his bullet tearing through the side of the man's neck and splashing his blood all over the nearest wall. 

The man drops like a sack of potatoes, his neck flopping grotesquely on the sand. 

"Templar!" 

Mirage's eyes widen as the big man suddenly appears out of nowhere. He roars like a lion and dives at the smaller man. Mirage feels the full force of his weight hitting him in the side like a raging bull. He hits the sand so hard, he sees stars, the taste of blood filling his mouth. He lies there, dazed and confused, darkness threatening to overcome his vision. 

"You'll pay for that!" the big man roars. 

He interlocks his fingers together and raises both arms over his head, prepared to sink his full weight and force into Mirage's face. 

Mirage flinches, closing his eyes, hoping it'll be quick. 

But Bloodhound appears out of nowhere (or maybe, his inner voice nags at him, they were the one who threw the fucking grenade). 

Dagger in hand. 

They stab at the man's head. 

But the man raises his personal shield just in time.

It slides right off of it.  

The man stumbles away from Mirage, his deep voice bellowing in rage.

Mirage exchanges his wingman for his Peacekeeper. 

But before he can shoot the big man, he feels bullets hammering at his back, their force tilting him forward, throwing him off balance. 

Bloodhound looks passed him, at whoever it was that had shot him. They sheath their knife. 

And then they pull their R-99 out, clutching it steadily in both hands. 

Mirage feels the bullets whistling by his ear, just barely missing him. 

His head whips around so fast, he almost gets whiplash. 

All of the bullets hit their target square in the chest.

The spindly little robot that had shot him stands still.

And then teeters. 

The screen on its chest cracked and broken and black. 

Mirage turns back to Bloodhound in amazement. 

"That was ama-"

But the word dies in his throat.

And his ear drums are completely blown out as the big man shoots his Peacekeeper at Bloodhound. 

The masked hunter's shield holds, but as they stagger back, the man re-loads, and shoots again. 

Bloodhound tries in vain to shoot back, but they can't do enough damage to  break through the big man's thick shield. 

Mirage draws his own Peacekeeper, but before he can even fire it, the big man throws down an enormous blue dome shield that encompasses him and Bloodhound. 

He fires at it, but his shots just bounce right off.

Helplessly, he watches through the shield as the big enemy combatant bears down on Bloodhound. 

The masked hunter continues to fire, every one of their shots hitting. 

But even as the man's personal shield cracks, it's not enough. 

In a last ditch effort to save themselves, Bloodhound throws away the gun and seizes the shotgun, pushing it away from their body. 

But the man yanks it away from them, and whips them across the face with the back of the shotgun. 

He shatters the eyes of Bloodhound's mask. 

Bloodhound collapses on the ground from the force of the blow, the wires of their mouthpiece knocked loose and disconnected, their breathing harsh. 

They reach out their hand, trying to stop the next blow from coming, but they can't do anything as the end of the shotgun comes down again, hard against their face, snapping their head backwards. 

Their own mask, something they have felt comfortable in since they were a teenager, feels like a cage, holding in their now bloated and bruised face, scraping against their beaten flesh. 

Mirage punches at the shield in frustration, but he can do nothing but watch as the big man raises his shotgun once more, this time pointing the muzzle at Bloodhound. 

Bloodhound raises their knockdown shield. 

The big man blasts it away easily with one shot. 

And then he shoots them again. 

And the spread of the bullets hits Bloodhound directly in the chest. 

And exits in a spray off blood and flesh out of their back, staining the window behind them with scarlet liquid and viscera. 

And Mirage, staring at them in horror from outside of the shield, sees them fall almost as though in slow motion, his eyes fixated on the scene, unable to look away. 

Bloodhound's head flops backwards. Their top half teeters uncertainly for a moment.

And then they fall. 

Slowly.

Their back leans almost gently against the nearest building. 

And slides ever so slightly, as though Bloodhound were doing it themselves, as though they were simply taking a rest from a difficult day, their shoulders slumped, completely limp, their legs still, their chin falling onto their chest. 

And his throat burns. 

His head hurts.

And Mirage realizes only later, his ears still ringing, that he's screaming.

Screaming his team mate's name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eurgh, I don't like how this chapter turned out. Anyway.
> 
> Notes:
> 
> -Listen. I'm trying to make this fic a little realistic, hence the lack of respawning. So Gibraltar's shield? I mean, in real life, why on earth would there be a shield that doesn't allow gun fire to get through, but does allow people to get through it? Doesn't make any sense to me, so his shield works like a complete lock out shield. Mirage can't pass through it OR shoot through it. 
> 
> \- Templar is a random OC. I already used all the other characters, and there aren't nine characters, so. Uneven squads. Had to make up a random. I will laugh if they ever add a new character named Templar, though. 
> 
> \- I'm so sorry, Pathfinder. Don't worry, though, he's ok. He didn't suffer any permanent damage, he just needs a new power cell. His "brain" chip wasn't affected by Bloodhound's bullets. Oh and I'm sorry to all the Pathfinder fans out there, he doesn't have a huge role in this fic. I kind of would rather focus on Bangalore's squad than Gibraltar's.
> 
> \- Also, Gibraltar, I'm so sorry, dude, I love you but for the sake of the Plot...


	13. Ring Closing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have returned from playing Apex.

_Out of all of his brothers, he likes Liam the least._

_He likes Talos just fine. The third oldest, second youngest, of four children, all rowdy boys, he'd learned early on to have a sense of humor. He might be mean sometimes, a natural prankster, but he's not a particularly cruel soul, and most of his pranks, even the more mean spirited ones, are in good fun._

_He likes Warren, the second oldest, more than Talos. Handsome, polite, the kind of boyfriend, Elliott always joked, that every parent hopes their daughter (or son) brings home. Warren never panicked, was always calm under fire. When Talos had set a chemical fire in the lab, only worsening it by throwing water on it, it was Warren who'd calmly pulled him out and sprayed gallons of coolant onto the hot blue flames. And even though he'd gotten third degree burns on his hands, it was he who had comforted the completely unhurt Talos, who'd cried and apologized profusely. The scars never went away, but it never bothered Warren. Even though Warren had said there was nothing to forgive, Talos always, even into his early twenties, blamed himself for the accident, and was always willing to go out of his way to help his brother, should he ever ask (he never did)._

_And he loves Liam. Would do anything for him._

_But he doesn't like him._

_"Elliott," Liam says with a grin, ruffling his hair._

_His youngest brother, just turned 18, scowls._

_" What's he doing here?" he asks his mother._

_"Wow, nice to see you too," Liam says, poking him hard in the chest. Elliott grabs at the spot he'd poked, glaring at him._

_"He's home for a vacation,'" their mother scolds. "Honestly, I don't know what it is about you two. He's your oldest brother, and he's your youngest brother,_ Liam.  _Love each other."_

_"Don't you have a space orphanage to save, Liam?" Elliott jeers. "Some poor, destitute prostitute with a heart of gold from Demeter who desperately needs your help fighting for prostitute union rights?"_

_"No, that's next month," Liam says airily. He flips his hair back impertinently. "And that's Sir Liam to you."_

_He lets out a deep, barking laugh as Elliott punches him in the stomach. "You feel those? Those are abs, little brother. Abs from all the people I carried on my back to safety from a forest fire on Castor."_

_"You're such a douche bag."_

_"How dare you save so many children?" Talos yells._

_He leaps at his oldest brother, gripping him tightly around the neck, giving him a rowdy hug, shaking him back and forth like a dog with a toy._

_"How could a monster like you walk into this house and call himself our brother after single-handedly saving the forests of Harmony? Oh the poor marine wildlife you advocated for! Oh the horror of all those baby sea lions you saved!"_

_"There are no sea lions on Harmony," Warren says._

_Liam extricates himself from Talos' grip and gives his calm and bespectacled younger brother a firm handshake that turns into a brief one-armed hug._

_"Good to see you, Warren," he murmurs._

_Then he turns back to Elliott, who makes no move to hug or touch his eldest brother like the rest._

_"And what are you up to, kid brother? I hear you dropped out of school a week before graduating."_

_No, he really doesn't like Liam._

_Normally, he and his mother get along great. But when Liam is around? They might as well be strangers._

_She's hot-tempered, brusque, and never shies away from hard truths._

_Raising four sons on her own had something to do with her fearlessness and rough and tumble attitude, but Elliott had heard from his brothers, who had heard from their father, before he'd died, that she'd always been like that._

_Ferocious and wild and passionate about the universe, and the people inhabiting it._

_Supposedly, Liam had gotten his drive to do good from her. Likewise, Warren had gotten his intelligence from her, although he'd probably gotten his cool temperament from their father. Talos, allegedly, had gotten her wild streak, which apparently ran in her side of the family._

_And that left Elliott._

_With...well._

_Her obstinacy._

_"I didn't need school," Elliott grunts. "I'm staying at home in the shop, Mom's going to teach me everything she knows about the Holo Piloting kit."_

_"Is that so?" Liam says. "That's cool."_

_But his tone of voice doesn't reflect what he's said._

_And Elliott glowers at him._

_"Just because I'm not trying to save the damn universe like you-"_

_"Hey, I didn't say anything!"_

_"You've said plenty!"_

_"Elliott, come on, why do you gotta be such an instigator?" Talos asks with a wicked grin._

_"Shut the hell up, toilet hair!"_

_"Guys," Warren says mildly, but it's too late._

_Now the three brothers begin to yell in the small, cramped kitchen, Elliott red in the face as he lets out a stream of insults directed at his eldest brother, Liam shaking his head and shouting back counter insults, Talos laughing maniacally and urging both of them on, and Warren holding his hands up, looking tired._

_"Enough!"_

_They all freeze at the sound of their mother's voice, sharp as a whip, over their heads._

_Four grown men all cower as she takes a step in their direction._

_"You four...have five seconds to get out of my kitchen and wash up for dinner," she says, voice steady and even, but with a hint of warning. "I'm going to turn around and if I see you still here by the time I turn back, you will be eating outside. And then we're going to have a personal talk."_

_She turns around._

_But doesn't bother turning back around, because all four of her grown sons make a mad dash for the door, Talos and Elliott getting stuck in the door frame in their haste._

_If only Elliott could go back._

_He thinks about that moment now, how petty their arguments had been, how small and insignificant in the long run, but how serious they had felt at the time._

_He could've apologized._

_He could've taken back everything he said._

_He could've followed Liam to his room and said look I'm sorry._

_Dropping out was a hard decision._

_And I don't hate what you do. I don't hate you._

_I just hate being the youngest._

_I hate feeling like I don't matter._

_I hate feeling constantly overshadowed by you._

_But he didn't say it._

_He didn't._

_He stormed back to his room._

_He got ready for dinner._

_When they ate together, the whole argument was forgotten._

_But there's a thin layer of animosity between him and his eldest brother._

_And it keeps them from becoming truly close._

_Keeps him from saying goodbye to him._

_Elliott regrets that now more than ever._

_And he thinks about the last time he saw all of his family together, alive, in the same house, and wishes he hadn't been so proud._

_Wishes he'd told them that he didn't think they were annoying, that he didn't really want for them to go away._

_That he loved them. They were his family._

_But they'll never know it now._

_And when he'd last seen each and every one of them, he's certain that they thought he hated them._

_And it's a ghost that still haunts his every step._

Gibraltar turns away from his latest kill.

He sees the downed target's squad mate, the skinny one in the blond suit with the wavy hair, pounding furiously at the shield. 

"Easy kill," Gibraltar murmurs to himself, approaching him.

But then he hears the warning siren. 

And then the announcement: "Ring closing."

Shit.

He glances over at the last enemy, then at Pathfinder.

Templar is dead, may he rest in peace, but Pathfinder they may need to reboot. He has no doubt in his mind that Pathfinder is essentially down and out, he can't be brought back for this Apex Game, but he'd come to like the rather silly little robot. 

So even though it does him no good, he decides to grab his powered-down teammate and take him to the nearest respawn beacon. If he sends up a signal, the Apex sponsors will send a rescue team down to grab him. After all, Pathfinder is a fairly popular returning champion. They'll invest some energy into bringing him back up. Might as well make it easier on them by grabbing him.

He deactivates the shield.

The man in the yellow suit shoots at him, but he deflects it easily with his personal shield. 

He reaches out and socks the poor man in the chin. 

As he falls back, Gibraltar yanks his gun out of his hand.

"Sorry, brother, you're just out of luck," he says.

And then he fires his gun once into the man's right leg.

The man howls. 

Gibraltar ignores him, heading towards Pathfinder.

"Ring's coming soon," he says to the man. "If I were you, I'd start crawling." 

He lifts the battered robot into his arms and slings his limp body over his shoulder. 

Then he begins to jog away, mindful of the bright orange ring that's slowly, but steadily, advancing across the desert. 

* * *

_He'd never join the military._

_Elliott decides that right off the bat._

_Talos had joined the IMC's military._

_Just before he'd left, he flicked Elliott in the forehead._

_"Take care of yourself, squirt," he said jauntily as he jogged off to meet the bus that'll take him hundreds of light years away from home._

_Warren had joined the IMC's Light Technology Division._

_Not technically supposed to be a division of the military, but it is associated with it, since he develops both planetary and star ship shielding technology._

_He nods to Elliott when he leaves, their mother waiting to drive him to the nearest air base._

_"Be good to Mom," he says. "And...I'll miss you."_

_Elliott wants to say something nice, but he can't._

_He just nods back, his jaw locked, as his second oldest brother leaves home._

_He goes back inside and cries about it later. His mother can probably tell, but she doesn't say anything at dinner._

_And Liam of course, had joined some bullshit peace-keeping grassroots nonprofit organization dedicated to protecting IMC workers' rights on newly colonized  planets._

_There wasn't a week that went by where he wasn't hearing his brother's name on the news._

_He stopped watching the news, turning off the TV altogether._

_And eventually, when he leaves home, desperate to make a name for himself, loving his mother, but needing to be out there in the universe, showing his brothers that he's one of them, that he's not just their little kid brother, he's his own man, he decides that he'll start small._

_He signs up to be the garbage attendant on a small cargo ship called Galatea._

_Because if his brothers are going to be scientists, military grunts, and peacekeepers, then he's just going to have to find his own way._

Agony. 

He's been shot in the leg before, had literally been shot a day ago, but that doesn't make it hurt any less now. 

Elliott lets out a scream of pain as sand blows over the sensitive, torn flesh. 

"Goddamnit! Motherfucker!" 

He yanks his backpack off, doing his best not to jostle his leg, his hands shaking almost too hard for him to pulling the zipper open. 

Inside he finds one of his med kits. 

He hurriedly opens it up and seizes the syringe. 

Bloody fingers trembling, he jabs it right through his suit into his thigh. 

He lets out another scream of pain that is lost in the wind as a bolt of lightning races from the point of contact all the way through his leg to his toes. 

His body jerks as it's forced to heal, the cells beginning to multiple rapidly, skin and muscle beginning to meld back together. 

If he remembers anything from last time, it's that this shit is going to fuck with his muscles for the next hour or so.

But he doesn't care. 

Even though his leg protests, every muscle screaming out in unison, he staggers over to Bloodhound.

Bloodhound's raven is perched on their knee.

"Get off!" Elliott roars. He swipes at the bird, and it squawks angrily. But he keeps waving at it, forcing it to hop back. "They're not dead yet!"

He falls to his knees, grasping his fallen team mate by the shoulders. "Bloodhound? Bloodhound, talk to me. Are you conscious? Bloodhound!"

But he can't even see if Bloodhound's eyes are open.

The eyes of the mask are stained with blood.

And they aren't moving, aren't reacting to his calls.

They lie there against the building, as limp as a puppet with its strings all cut. 

"No, no, no, no, no," Elliott moans. His vision wavers. His mind suddenly becomes clouded. "No, no-"

_The cargo ship bores him._

_After two months working there, he escapes at a port called Numayo. It's a seedy place, full of slimy characters, thieves, blackmailers, assassins, and even, so he hears, militia rebels looking to sell and buy weapons._

_It is here that he meets the Apex Predators._

_Rougher, louder, and more aggressive than most, they dominate the scene as soon as they arrive._

_They seem like they don't take shit from anyone, don't care about anyone's opinions of them._

_And they fight like wild dogs when a gunfight breaks out on the habitat ring of the port._

_It is during this fight that Elliott meets Mackenzie Lutherian._

_A veteran of the Fueling Wars of Cibus, from its early colonization days, twenty years earlier, Lutherian doesn't seem like the type to take any interest in a kid like Elliott._

_But he has to, as during a fire fight, about to be gunned down by one of port's many unruly inhabitants, said kid runs out to take the bullet for him._

_And then vanishes, into thin air._

_A decoy. A distraction._

_One that allows Lutherian to shoot his attacker in the head._

_"You've got guts, kid," the man had said to him later. "I owe you one."_

_And Elliott had cashed in that favor immediately by asking to join the Apex Predators and learn everything he knows._

He knows it's a complete violation of privacy, but he thinks Bloodhound will just have to forgive him. 

He pulls off Bloodhound's mask. 

A curtain of red hair falls to their shoulders, free at last. 

Their eyes are closed. 

Their face is deathly pale, the entire right half disfigured by a long white bumpy scar that cuts from the forehead, through the right eye, all the way down to their throat. 

But he ignores that. 

All he does is put his hand close to Bloodhound's mouth, trying to see if he can feel breathing. 

And he does.

Faintly. Barely. 

He fumbles with Bloodhound's jacket, apologizing even though the hunter cannot hear him. 

He pulls it open, then tears off a chunk of their shirt, revealing part of their chest. It's cut up already, another long-healed white ropey scar catching his eyes, descending from their right shoulder and disappearing behind the cloth covering their stomach, but he ignores it, not caring to speculate on it or even pay it any more attention.

He jabs his second med kit syringe into Bloodhound's chest. 

And he slaps at Bloodhound's face just a little.

"Can you hear me?" he shouts. "Bloodhound, are you in there?"

He puts his ear to their chest, the hunter's blood dripping into his hair.

It's beating, but faintly. 

Luckily, the blast must've missed their heart.

But they're barely breathing. 

One of the rounds might've scraped a lung, possibly collapsing it. 

A siren blares.

Sand and dust is picked up by the wind and flung about.

In the distance, he can see a bright orange wave approaching them from the southwest. 

"Fuck, that's the ring, isn't it?" he yells at Bloodhound over the sound of the wind. "Bloodhound, can you hear me?"

The hole in their chest isn't closing. 

He can see the skin beginning to weakly pull itself together, some of the internal damage being fixed, but he's terrified that it won't be enough. 

He yanks off his scarf, bunches it up, and leans Bloodhound against it, holding it in place against the gaping hole in their back.

Then he begins to yank off his holo pilot equipment, dropping it carelessly on the ground, mindful of the ring looming ominously in the distance. 

He takes Bloodhound's knife and begins to cut off the sleeves of his suit, desperately needing something to stop the bleeding in order to give the med kit time to work. 

* * *

_His time with the Apex Predators seems like a dream, and passes by so quickly he barely notices the time fly._

_It's hard work. Training. Learning how to shoot. How to fight._

_How to assemble, disassemble, and reassemble every gun they throw at him._

_Learning how to throw a grenade and how to roll out of the way of one._

_Figuring out how to best use his holo pilot expertise in combat._

_It's all fun and games to distract people with bright lights produced by his emitters, but it's another thing to have a limited amount of energy, and to be pinned down by a far superior force, with a whole squad of Predators to take care of._

_Trickery is more than a skill, and it's only with the Apex Predators that he learns it can be an art form._

_Some part of him knows that this is wrong._

_That working for mercenaries, who will do whatever they are paid to do, slides into the gray area of morality._

_But for his first five years with them, he is happy to be a part of something._

_To be in a band of brothers who don't taunt him, don't treat him like a little brother, but as an equal._

_As someone not only worth protecting, but worth respecting._

_Sure, their ties are superficial. And he wouldn't trust any of them to save his life at the expense of their own, nor would he ever even dream of asking them for any favors, if they weren't already in his debt. And he would never share personal information with them. Would never trust them with his true feelings or opinions._

_But he's ok with that._

_And he misses his mom sometimes, can only call her from time to time, to check in, sometimes catch a brother or two while on the line, feels guilty about missing the holidays, but that's ok._

_It was never meant to be permanent._

_He'd only done this to get some experience, become his own person, improve his family's technology on his own. Go out, see the universe, maybe meet a beautiful woman who'd fall in love with his roguish ways and be charmed into coming home with him to meet his mother._

_After five years, he'd been about ready to quit and come home, although he hadn't found that gorgeous charming woman to bring with him._

_And then Tristan happened._

He presses the yellow cloth to Bloodhound's chest as hard as he dares, but the blood soaks through in seconds, completely drenching pieces of his torn up suit until they were nothing more than soaking, bloody rags (and his suit is made of thick cotton, not the finest silk). 

After the sixth article of clothing has been soaked through, and in the process of changing the cloth on Bloodhound's back, he feels a sudden wave of heat in the area.

And then he realizes that the ring can't be ignored anymore.

It begins to sweep through Skull Town, heading right at them. 

He desperately pulls the cloth he'd been holding away from Bloodhound's wound to see if they can be moved. 

The hole is still there, the deep depression from where their skin had been ripped up by the rounds still there, but he can no longer see through Bloodhound's body into the wall behind them. The holes where the rounds had exited in their back are also closed up, for the most part, but Bloodhound is still missing a layer of flesh, their back flayed and red. 

Their breathing is ragged, but at least he can hear it audibly without needing to put his hand close to their mouth now.

Blood is dribbling from their mouth to their chin. 

"I'm so sorry," Elliott moans. "I'm so sorry."

But he isn't apologizing to Bloodhound. 

Not really.

Not really, because he's not seeing Bloodhound, he's not seeing a hole in their chest. 

He's seeing-

_Before Tristan, they mostly protected IMC supply ships, refueling ports, energy plants, and ore refineries. They roughed up some civilians, intimidated some would-be political dissidents, rounded up some dissenters to be publicly humiliated._

_Nothing too serious, really. Elliott had been coasting through planets all over the Frontier, mostly enjoying the company of women, but occasionally sharing his bed with male company when they passed through heavy refinery and factory areas, with less women available._

_Tristan was his first real contact with the so called "Frontier Militia" he'd heard of._

_The ragtag degenerate rednecked farm hicks with some ridiculous dream that one day they'd be "free" from the IMC that had been providing them with food, water, shelter, and energy for the past hundred years._

_Garbage that needed to be taken out._

_When they arrive at Tristan, he expects the mission to be a breeze._

_And it was, for the most part._

_Until one night, after a successful week of rounding up dissidents who dropped grenades into heavy machinery, dropped bolts into industrial fans, and bombed high-ranking officials' transport ships, he'd cornered a band of rebels, all wearing masks, who were not to be imprisoned._

_He'd had special orders not to capture them and bring them to the internment camp for rehabilitation, but to bring them to Sedaris 47, the biggest city on the planet, for a special public trial._

_And when he and the other Predators had yanked off their masks, his heart feels like it stops._

_Because he hadn't seen him in over five years._

_Hadn't seen him since that dinner, that odd week where all of the Witt boys' schedules had somehow managed to line up to put every surviving member of the Witt family into one house for a whole night and day._

_The man's mask drops out of his hands._

_He isn't looking at Elliott, but Elliott knows the color of his hair, his defiant chin, which he got from their mother, his proud back._

_And then he finally looks up, and he knows those eyes. They're just like Mom's eyes._

_"Liam?"_

Elliott grips his hands over his mouth tightly.

Liam is slumped on the ground in front of him, neck tilted at a horrible angle.

It's Liam whose body lies broken and mangled in front of him, like a toy, all out of batteries. 

Liam, whose eyes are closed, whose mouth is red with blood. 

His eyes know it isn't Liam, can't be Liam.

But his mind knows that it is.

And he's frozen in shock, in pure horror, as the ring overtakes the both of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's confusing, oldest to youngest: Liam, Warren, Talos, Elliott. 
> 
> Anyway, notes:
> 
> \- Looked up photos of shotgun injuries for this chapter. Mega barf. I'd be more traumatized if I hadn't done stuff like this before for my horror books. Blergh.   
> \- Bloodhound is fucking lucky Apex has magical med kits that somehow heal every injury. Also lucky that Mirage did some of the basics for them while the med kit was taking effect.   
> \- Also, if Bloodhound had been shot in the heart, they would not have survived. They got lucky and ONLY got a collapsed lung. I can't believe ya'll thought I would kill off Bloodhound.........this soon.   
> \- *whispers you may also notice that this chapter, I am referring to Mirage...as Elliott. For...reasons.   
> \- anyway, this is peak romance, right? right? are you feeling weak in the knees yet?


	14. Get Back in the Ring!

His whole body feels as though it's been set on fire.

Elliott lets out a scream of pain as his skin burns with the unbearable feeling of being flayed slowly, inch by inch, right off his body. 

He blindly lunges at Liam's body, seizes it around the middle, and pulls it over his shoulder.

Something hard digs into his neck, but he ignores it. 

He has to get out of here, has to run, has to get out, has to save Liam, can't let him die, can't-

_"What the hell are you doing?" Elliott shouts through the force field at his oldest brother, whose hands are still handcuffed behind his back._

_The youngest Witt brother paces, glaring at him, his gun strapped to his back, his fingers twitching with agitation. He's not sure if he wants to hug his brother or punch him, but both ideas are fairly tempting._

_"What the hell are_ you  _doing?" Liam shoots defiantly back. "What are you doing working with scum like them? For assholes like the IMC?"_

_Elliott scowls at him, hating his arrogant face, as haughty and condescending as it had always been._

_But at the same time, he'd have to be completely blind to miss how different it looks._

_Liam looks haggard, exhausted. He's dirty, his normally impeccable, photogenic hair clumped together with sweat and filth. His face is thin, unhealthily so, and his tall, once well-muscled body now looks deathly skinny. Still muscular, but less healthy. He looks like a bilge rat, strong from fighting other rats and maybe even clawing out cats' eyes, his height only further exacerbating how much more tightly his skin clings to his frame._

_Elliot wouldn't recognize him if he wasn't family._

_"I'm doing my job. I'm protecting my planet. I'm- I'm protecting my friends! You're a frigging terrorist!" Elliott shouts._

_"Protecting your planet?" Liam asks spitefully. "Oh, that's rich. And your friends? Them? Please. You don't have friends, you've never had friends, and even if you did, they wouldn't be a bunch of lowlife cutthroat mercenaries who'd sooner slit your throat than share a penny's worth of their profit with you."_

_"Oh, I see how it is!" his youngest brother yells. "Here you are, sitting in a jail cell, about to be judged publicly and probably executed, and you can't stop talking about how much better you are than me. Unbelievable-!"_

_"You make it so easy!" Liam sneers back. "But hey, why care about the universe when you could destroy it, right? Poor Elliott, so misunderstood, the youngest of four brothers, Mommy's favorite, but without any respect. Grow the fuck up."_

_Elliott slams his fist into the force field._

_He winces at the pain now stinging at his knuckles, but doesn't care enough about it to regret it._

_"Me? Grow the fuck up? You're chasing a fucking fairy tale ending. You don't even care about these people, you're just anti-establishment, you always have been. Love the under dog! Love the poor and oppressed people of the world, oh boo hoo. The real world is full of shitty people, Liam. Ever ask yourself if these people are even worth saving? Ever ask yourself that or have you been too busy singing songs around the campfire with them and dreaming up futures where everyone can hold hands and be happy?"_

_Liam is shaking his head, his face red with anger, just like their mother's face would get when she was arguing._

_"You never could bring yourself to care about anyone but yourself," Liam says slowly, voice dripping with venom. "Never gave a damn about other people, always had to ask yourself, what's in it for me? What do I get out of this? It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Mom would be ashamed of you."_

_Elliott kicks at the door frame of Liam's cell._

_"They're going to fucking kill you, you idiot," he hisses. "You still going to play moral high ground then? Give noble speeches about how you're doing the right thing? No one gives a shit. Once you're dead, you're dead. Even martyrs all die in the public's eye eventually. They get their moment of glory, and then everyone forgets, and no one cares. The only way you can make people care about you is staying the fuck alive. Being the last man standing."_

_He feels ugly, blacker than sin. His heart is full to bursting with every bitter feeling he's ever had, every resentment he's ever held for his brother._

_He wants nothing more than to strangle Liam._

_To beat him into the prisoner bed and kick him in the stomach until he admits he's wrong._

_But at the same time, he's terrified beyond belief. Terrified that Liam is going to get seriously hurt._

_"Then that's how it's going to be," Liam says simply._

_Elliott stares at him, white-faced._

_"Sometimes fate guides us to where we need to be," his eldest brother says calmly. "And if there are no ways out, nothing can be done. Death is beyond our control. We just have to accept it with dignity when it comes."_

_He says it so peacefully._

_He says it as though he were suddenly channeling Warren's spirit._

_Elliott kicks at the door frame again._

_"That's stupid."_

It's not fate.

No, it isn't.

He isn't going to lie down and die. 

And neither is Liam.

Elliott sprints with his oldest brother's body on his back. Liam feels so light, too light, but he thinks nothing of it.

He runs, feeling his lungs throbbing painfully, his heart pounding, feels the muscles of his legs burning, but he doesn't care.

He keeps moving because he has to save himself, and Liam.

Stupid Liam, who said that he only cares about himself, that he would never help another person in need. 

Stupid Liam, who also thought that he didn't care about his family. 

He's going to get the both of them out of this, and then he's going to rub it in his face and laugh at him.

He's going to get his big stupid bony ass home and their mother is going to scold him and ask him why he can't be more like Elliott, practical and brave and strong? 

He trips over something, maybe nothing, but it doesn't matter. He just scrambles back up, Liam's head flopping against his shoulder. 

Doesn't matter that his skin is on fire, or that the sand just burns it worse.

Doesn't matter that all he can see is orange, and his vision is tinged with red. 

Or that it's beginning to go out entirely, blackness threatening to overtake everything.

He runs because he can't do anything else, and because he wants to prove a point.

"Stay with me, Liam," he gasps, almost laughing, his lips cracked and bleeding, blood beginning to trickle from his ears. "You fucking idiot, stay with me, so I can beat your ass later." 

_"Come on," Elliott hisses. "We have to go now!"_

_He'd snuck back in, much later that night._

_It's almost 4 am._

_Liam had been dead asleep when he'd crawled in. But at the sound of his brother calling him, he'd sat straight up, looking afraid at first, then simply aggravated._

_"I'm not leaving," Liam hisses back. "They're going to execute my friends tomorrow. I'm not letting them die alone."_

_"You're an asshole," Elliott growls. "Mom is gonna friggin' kill me if I let you die."_

_"Still thinking about yourself," Liam taunts. "I'm not leaving. I was the one who encouraged them, who helped them, who lead them. I'm not going to just abandon them-"_

_"You were the one who encouraged them? You fucking idiot, you deserve to be executed!" Elliott shout-whispers. "Now fucking come with me."_

_But Liam refuses to step over the barrier holding the deactivated shield barrier._

_"Not unless you release every one of my friends."_

_"I can't do that!"_

_"Then leave."_

_Elliott glowers at him._

_"I could just knock your ass out and drag you back home."_

_"Oh try me," Liam snorts. "Even half-starved I could kick your ass from here to Harmony."_

_"Maybe I'll shoot you."_

_"They'll hear."_

_"When the hell did you get suicidal?" Elliott asks furiously. "Why won't you let me help you? Is it just some stupid pride thing?"_

_A shadow of sorrow flickers through his oldest brother's eyes._

_And he no longer looks defiant or angry, but sad._

_So sad that Elliott almost can't bear to look at him._

_"You really don't understand?" Liam asks tiredly. "Then you never will."_

Fucking idiot, Elliot thinks in his head.

His brother's weight is dragging him down.

The ring is still coming, is still over him.

He can see where it's beginning to slow down and stop, but he doesn't know if he can make it.

His knees give out.

He collapses onto the ground, his brother's body falling with him.

It rolls onto the grass. 

He grips his hair in his hands, feeling as though he's being jabbed by a million sharp, small knives all over. 

Stupid Liam, stupid Liam, stupid Liam, he'd never be here if it weren't for him, he'd never have to make these decisions, push himself this hard, if only he knew what was good for him, if only he-

_The next morning, he thinks wildly about his next move._

_Maybe he'll grab Liam at the prisoner transport space dock, kill every guard there and let all of the prisoners escape._

_Maybe he'll get him at the prisoner check-in stations, shoot every inspector, then let all of the prisoners escape._

_Maybe he'll take a gun out in the court room, shoot at the judge, get himself arrested to give his brother a little more time to escape, or his rebel friends on other worlds more time to come get him._

_Or maybe when they line him up against the wall to shoot him, he'll shoot each and every soldier instead. And then let all of the prisoners escape._

_Maybe then Liam will understand just how close he'd come to dying._

_How completely, utterly shitty dying is._

_And how much he actually wants to see home again._

_Wants to see their mother. And their brothers._

_Wants to see reason._

_And just once, to listen to his little brother._

_But all of the plans he comes up with are utterly ridiculous, with no real escape potential._

_He can do nothing, only watch as they load his brother into the prisoner transport ship and fly him to the court room to be told his fate._

He crawls on his hands and knees. 

He forces his arms and legs to move, even though every muscle is begging him not to. 

Liam is an idiot. 

Look at him, lying on the ground.

Exhausted. Skinny.

Weak.

Bloody. 

Beaten down. 

All for what? 

People he didn't know?

People who would rat him out and throw him down river the second he stopped being useful to them?

Acting as though the Apex Predators were horrible...well, the whole universe is horrible.

Full to the brim with horrible people.

Who don't care about other people.

"You're an idiot," Elliott says, mouth burning, blood bubbling through his teeth. "Don't look at me like that."

He hoists his brother back onto his shoulders. 

The weight forces his knees to buckle.

But he staggers forward anyway.

The light is so close, he can see it.

Just has to keep going.

So close.

So close.

_Collier is to his left._

_Lutherian is first in line._

_Marrow, Teegan, Wadigo, Quoronan, Edros, also in line._

_And he is last._

_He is last, as is Liam._

_The leader dies last._

What's that?

Elliott ignores it. 

A weird nightmare he had. Horrible nightmare. He'll tell Liam all about it when they're safe.

_They raise their rifles._

_Lutherian fires._

_Blam._

_Right into a dissident's head._

_They slump backwards, body falling almost comically with a thud against the concrete wall._

_Lutherian's face is completely relaxed, even bored._

_He steps back._

_Marrow. Teegan. Wadigo. Quoronan. Edros._

_Clean as a whistle._

_Perfect shots, right between the eyes._

_Clunk, clunk, clunk._

_Next is Collier._

Horrible, horrible imagination he has.

He's on his knees now.

He can't run anymore.

All he can do is crawl.

Crawl to safety.

His brother clutched in his right hand.

"Not gonna leave you," Elliott grunts. "Not. Gonna. Leave. Any. Of. You."

_Collier is done._

_It's his turn._

_He steps forward._

_Looks up._

_Liam stares right at him._

_They stare at one another._

_Liam, with their mother's eyes, him with his father's._

_He doesn't raise his rifle._

_He can't._

_He's frozen in place._

"Not a coward," Elliott says, tears spilling from his eyes, mixing in with the blood. "Not a-" 

_"Get on with it!" Collier growls, shoving him in the shoulder._

_Millions of people are watching._

_Is his mother watching?_

_Somewhere in the universe, is her TV on?  Is she watching her youngest son slaughter her oldest son?_

_Are his brothers watching?_

_Is God watching?_

He stops.

He can't.

Just can't move.

He lies in the grass, burning.

Being punished, probably, by God.

For letting his brother die, no. 

For- 

_"I can't, I can't," Elliott babbles under his breath to Lutherian, who has stalked over. "He's my-"_

_Lutherian seizes the barrel of the rifle and aims it at Liam, who looks coldly at him._

_"Pull the trigger," he growls._

_Liam blinks._

_"Do what he says," he says, the corners of his mouth curling into a small smile. "Go on. Those are your orders, little soldier."_

_He can't._

He can.

He inches forward. 

He almost leaves Liam behind, but then remembers him. 

Remembers that although he is in pain, Liam probably is hurting more, since he's injured, and he's tired, and he's a peacekeeper, he's delicate, he's weaker- 

_"I won't-!"_

_"Do it!" Lutherian shrieks into Elliott's face, spitting on him, making him jump._

_Making him jump...and his fingers clench in a panic._

_Making his pointer finger curl on the trigger._

_Making the rifle fire._

_Elliott wants to look away, but he can't._

_He can't._

_He looks at Liam again._

_A small, clean hole in his forehead._

_A perfect round hole._

_Liam looks confused. A little flummoxed._

_Almost comical, like he'd just woken up in a bed full of piss to a gleeful Elliott with a bowl of warm water in his hands._

_He blinks and turns to stare at Elliott almost inquisitively, as though to ask him what's wrong, why are you crying?_

_But then, almost as though it occurs to him what has happened, his eyes close._

_And he falls back._

_Back, back, back, his body splattering against the concrete wall behind him._

_He is as limp and motionless as a rag doll, his neck at a horrible angle._

_His eyes, their mother's eyes, never to open again._

_And bizarrely, morbidly, he looks almost as though he's sleeping._

Elliot's hand breaks free of the ring. 

His fingers inch across the grass. 

Agonizing inch by inch, he pulls himself across the line. 

And he drags the body behind him. 

It's too heavy.

He wants to give up.

Can barely move himself anymore. 

Doesn't want to do this anymore, doesn't want to be a hero, doesn't want to be special, doesn't want to hurt anymore. 

Doesn't want to suffer so that others may live. 

But it doesn't matter what he wants.

Because something within him drives him to do it.

To keep going. 

It's more than his heart, more than his head, more than his body, even. 

He moves on pure instinct. Pure Witt desire to do what is right. 

His mind is confused, his heart is broken, his body is fucked up, his soul is long gone, but something still moves him. 

Something beyond any of those things gets Bloodhound's body through the ring, and into safety.

Just an inch. 

Just an inch inside the zone. 

And in broad daylight, where anyone could see them, happen upon them.

And if Elliott could stay conscious, he might have a split second to notice that they are outside a massive gray structure of some kind.

But he can't. 

He can't. 

His eyes flutter closed. 

Liam swirls before his eyelids. 

Artie. Leeta. Mao. 

Bloodhound. 

"Why can't you do the right thing?" his mother's voice echoes in his head, disappointed. Always disappointed. 

He doesn't know.

God knows bad things have happened every time he's tried.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: 
> 
> \- Thank you so much for all the awesome feedback!   
> \- Elliott is a suffering boy. He still has much soul searching to do.  
> \- I actually had a shit ton of fun writing this chapter, because I love writing physical suffering and I love writing hallucinatory sequences...plus I love writing people struggling to deal with their emotions and their memories, trying to confront past traumas. It's fun.  
> \- guess what that gray building is? I'll give you a hint, it's the place you go to die if you don't feel like playing a game that's longer than forty seconds.


	15. Placing Independent Variables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't get people who call Bloodhound Bloth as if it's their name, when it isn't, it's just how they say their name in Icelandic.
> 
> I have hereby christened Bloodhound "Atli" for the purposes of this fic. For reasons only I am privileged to know...

_"Then the gods created seven more worlds using Ymir’s flesh for dirt, his blood for the Oceans, rivers and lakes, his bones for stone, his brain as the clouds, his skull for the heaven. Sparks from Muspelheim flew up and became stars."_

_Yggdrasil. Urðr. Verðandi. Skuld._

_"Words have power. This is great power in nature, in accepting the will of the universe. It is in all of us. It is us. We are the universe, made manifest. We are people made of stardust."_

_Mother sighs._

_She is a woman of strict traditions, rituals, and beliefs._

_Father is...more flexible._

_He cuddles Atli at night, pats them on the head, lets them play with the wolf pup even though their mother had said not to let either of them get too soft._

_And he lets Atli get away with skipping hunts._

_Doesn't force Atli to hunt wild game with the other families._

_Not since the first time, when they had downed a deer, with impeccable aim, but had been unable to finish it off._

_They had stared at it, lying on its side, chest heaving, their knife in hand, and had been frozen for so long their Father had had to put the poor thing out of its misery himself._

_After that, he lets Atli stay at home._

_Mother had yelled at him quite sternly for coddling their son._

_And she'd given Atli a harsh talking to, telling them that stardust fantasies are for little children, not growing adults._

_She'd forbidden him from speaking to either her or Father until they killed their first beast._

_And within the week, unable to bear the silence any longer, they had gone out with their wolf pup, Ylva, a pup no longer, to slay their first_ eldur dýrið.

_Mother had been so proud._

_Father had just been happy to speak to his only child again._

_Although she could be harsh, Atli loves their mother dearly._

_There are moments when she runs her fingers through their hair, kisses them lightly on the forehead for no reason. Sings under her breath, voice rough, but full of passion._

Ok i drauminom ek leit  
sem gegnom ein groman glugg  
þá helo feigo mennsko sveit,  
hver sjon ol sin eiginn ugg.

Talit þeira otta jok  
ok leysingar joko enn —  
en oft er svar eit þyngra ok,  
þó spurning at bera brenn.

Ek fekk sofa lika vel,  
ek truða þat væri best —  
at hvila mik á goðu þel´  
ok gløyma svá folki flest´.

Friðinn, ef hann finzt, er hvar  
ein firrest þann mennska skell.

_The time they woke up from a nightmare, thrashing in their sleep, and she had crawled over to their sleeping bag and curled tightly around them. Her warm body chases away the chill of the night terrors._

_And she sings:_

And in the dream I saw  
as though through a dirty window  
the whole ill-fated human race,  
a different fear upon each face.

The number of their worries grow  
and with them the number of their solutions —  
but the answer is often a heavier burden,  
even when the question hurts to bear.

As I was able to sleep just as well,  
I thought that would be best —  
to rest myself here on fine fur,  
and forget everyone else.

Peace, if it is to be found, is where  
one is furthest from the human noise. 

_They've never felt more safe in their life._

_And the next morning, she doesn't say a word about it, not to Father or to anyone else._

Peace, if it is to be found, is where one is furthest from the human noise. 

_A lyric they love._

_Their favorite._

_They quite love company. They love Mother and Father and the whole clan. They love music and dancing and singing and laughter._

_So they are at peace with human noise._

_They love their culture, their vibrant religion, their people, and their rich heritage._

_But they're also a child._

_They do not know yet, that there are other human noises._

_They don't understand that others might have been raised differently, with their own sets of songs._

_It is only when they are around eleven that they are forced to understand._

Caustic blinks rather slowly at his unconscious teammates.

On the one hand, he is disgusted by their incompetence. 

The state they're in. 

He's never seen such sorry creatures, has never had so much blood on his clothes, because his experiments are precise. Clean. 

He kills bloodlessly, for the most part.

Having such disgusting filth on his hands is distasteful, could potentially be a rogue element in his research. 

He'd taken in Bloodhound first, not caring so much about the other one. 

They are not wearing their mask, but he doesn't care what they look like, is not as interested as others would be to see their face. 

The mystery is their great tranquility. 

Their powerful driving urge to win. 

To kill, destroy, end anything that lies in their path. 

Their face matters little in respects to their killing instincts. 

He pumps another med kit syringe into their neck, surveys their injuries.

Looks like a shotgun blast to the chest. 

Seems too precise to have been a wild shot. 

He suspects they were incapacitated or otherwise stunned before being shot, possibly by a blow or an arc star.

His gloved fingers trace the outline of the wound on their chest, intrigued by the damage, by seeing an injury on a creature he had previously seen as invulnerable.

"How disappointing," he says to the unconscious hunter. 

And yet, why does he feel a flicker of admiration for them anyway?

A pathetic display, by all accounts. Unconscious, needing to be dragged by an incompetent fool, who could not even stay conscious themselves? 

Both of them, collapsed just outside the ring, where anyone could have killed them with ease? 

But he still feels something stir in his chest at the damage to Bloodhound's back. 

Because although their state is pitiful, they had survived. 

They are still breathing. 

Caustic kneels in front of them. 

His analytical eyes dart over their facial scars, over their exposed chest, flickering towards the scars there as well. 

They have survived much. 

They had almost died, true, but the key word was "almost."

He does not put much stock in the lives of insects, but this one is different.

This one refuses to die, for some reason, and he's never cared before.

Every creature resists the call of death, it is only natural.

Requires no higher brain functions.

Yet Bloodhound is different.

Bloodhound lives not because they know nothing else, because their scared, natural instincts act in the way of prey instincts. 

They live like a predator. 

And they die like one too, biting and clawing and fighting other predators to the bitter end. 

_Atli doesn't understand the people in hard black suits._

_They argue with his parents all day and night._

_Come back every morning, insisting that his parents comply._

_Mother is always moody and restless after they leave._

_Father is quiet and pensive._

_But they won't talk to them about it._

_They ask their friends around the village what's happening, but they don't know either._

_It seems as though the strangers, the outsiders who live far away, in the metal blocks, who do not hunt, do not fish, do not gather food, are trying to take something from them. From all of them._

_Atli doesn't understand why they can't just leave them all alone._

_Why they can't just go back to their home, and let them live in peace in_ their _home._

_"Look at those brats," one of them had said, glaring disdainfully at Atli, talking about them as though they weren't even there. "Just rolling around in the dirt, singing songs and scratching their asses all day. If the city of Valkana had its way..."_

_"I don't know how they live like this, I could never live like this," his female companion says with a shudder. "Never washing my hair, always sleeping on the ground, nothing to do but talk to your parents until you marry someone you don't know, and move into a hut ten yards away from your parents. I don't know how living breathing humans with brains could commit themselves to lives that trivial and boring! Where's the love for the stars? For human technology? We've come so far, we're colonizing the universe! I can't believe some people really have such-such low aspirations!"_

_They walk away, acting as though the people around them couldn't hear them, couldn't understand them._

_But Atli understands._

_They understand well enough from the tone of their voices._

_"Father, we love the stars, don't we?"_

_"Yes. Yes, we love them very much."_

_"Why don't we go to the stars like the others?"_

_"Because this is our home. And traveling the stars is admirable. It is humanity's destiny, I believe, to be among the stars. To understand the universe, knowing we rest in its heart, in its lungs, its very soul. But you do not have to be on other planets to love the stars. To see the universe, you only have to look inside yourself and ask, who am I?"_

_The people of Valkana take photos of them._

_Mother lunges at one who'd taken a photo of Atli and slaps the camera out of the woman's hand._

_She is dragged away and kept in what Father had angrily called a "human cage" or a "holding cell" for twenty four hours._

_"They don't understand that. They want to go out there, find everything there is to find, gather what materials they can, theorize, endlessly, and understand every bit of information they can. And this is all just noise to our people. That is not our way of understanding the universe. Their way can be admirable, it can be noble. But we seek understanding in another way, and if they do not respect this, then they are not to be trusted."_

_Father is harassed while in the city, speaking as a representative of their people._

_He comes home with his clothes in tatters from being grabbed, pushed around, and shoved._

_"Are they going to make us leave?" Atli asks._

_Father does not answer at first._

_"I don't know," he says for the first time in Atli's short life. "I don't know."_

_Atli is frightened by the noises. They do not like the huge trucks or the big machines._

_They do not like the emblem of this "IMC" Mother and Father murmur darkly about._

_They just want to be young and small again, playing with a wolf pup to the sound of their parents talking, late into the night._

"Caustic."

The man looks up. 

Bloodhound's eyes are open. 

Their right hand immediately flutters to their face, touching the uncovered skin gently. 

Caustic hands them their mask.

They pull it over their face with a relieved sigh.

Voice unmodified, low and rough, not bothering to attach the tubes, merely cover their face, they speak slowly to Caustic. 

"You are well?"

"Yes."

"And Mirage?"

"He'll be fine. What happened to you?"

"Surprise ambush."

"Is the squad still alive?"

"Only 1/3 of it." 

"Well I suppose that's something."

Bloodhound's head turns ever so slightly in his direction. When they speak again, it is with a hint of amusement.

"Do I sense a hint of resentment, Alexander Nox?" 

"I do not resent anything," Caustic says sternly. "I have no particular feelings on the matter. I am merely commenting on the fact that your participation in this experiment has been less than satisfactory."

"And how is that?"

"By allowing him and yourself to get injured, you wasted valuable time and resources that we may need for the later-game. It is merely inefficient. I only wished to point out your ineptitude."

"Seems like a waste of time, given the fact that we cannot change what has happened," Bloodhound says softly. 

Caustic tenses. 

"What is really bothering you?" the masked hunter asks. "The ineptitude of insects doesn't normally aggravate you, even if those insects are your team mates. You told me multiple times last year that you did not need me, or our third team mate, and could easily win on your own. It seems strange that your two team mates being injured and potentially put out of commission would elicit the complaint that we are wasting resources. After all, in your eyes, _we_ are wasted resources, are we not?" 

Caustic stares at the hunter, indiscernible look on his face.

Bloodhound stares back, their mask still bloody, eyes still cracked. 

The tall scientist seems unsettled by that. 

"Your god, what does he demand of you?" Caustic asks suddenly. "Tribute? Sacrifice? Mere...blind faith in his authority?" 

"Understanding," Bloodhound says. "Patience."

"And what does he give you in exchange for that?"

"It is not so simple."

Caustic turns away from his team mate, looking rather disgustedly at Mirage, who is still unconscious, his face covered in blood, his chest moving up and down rather erratically. 

"It should be. Religion is an outdated human ritual, a social order that is no longer needed to organize our societies. It is a cultural adaptation we have outgrown, should have abandoned long ago."

"People like you who only view religion as a means to an end are those who have given religion a bad name," Bloodhound says. "Believing in a higher power, or a cosmic force of the universe outside of our control, is a way of life, the same as your science is." 

"My science has results." 

"There is more to this life than how many numbers you scrawl on a notepad," the hunter says patiently. 

Caustic glares at them. 

"Trivial."

"Perhaps."

They sound almost as though they are smiling.

Caustic's boots slap hard against the floor as he turns to leave.

"I am guarding all exits and entrances," he says stiffly. "Join me when you are able, and we will discuss the end game." 

 _The city of Valkana said it was_ their _land. That Atli's people_   _were merely squatters and had no right to it, when they had lived here for generations._

_They said that the place Atli grew up in was not their own._

_They told them to leave, or be bulldozed into the dirt, and made into fertilizer._

_Their parents don't listen._

_They don't listen, they don't leave._

_And late at night, they wake up with flashlights in their faces, and guns pressed to their heads._

_Ylva sinks its teeth into one of the men's arms, refusing to let him drag Atli away._

_She is shot in the skull._

_Atli screams and lunges at the wolf's limp body, but is pulled away, shoved to the ground, and kicked viciously in the stomach by the man who'd called them a brat._

_Some of his clan mates gather around them, trying to protect them, but have guns shoved into their faces, nudging them aside, hitting arms and legs and stomachs. Atli is forced onto their feet and herded away._

_As they are pushed into a crowd with their friends and family, they see Mother._

_Atli cries out to her, watches as she is grabbed by the arm and dragged away from him, her face stricken with anger and fear, and a deep, sorrowful love as she meets their eyes._

_They try to follow her, but Father, having finally found them in the crowd, seizes them by the hand and pulls them with him._

_"We will find her again," he says soothingly. "We will sort this out."_

_Sitting beside them, on a cold stone bench, with others from their clan, who look just as tired and confused and afraid as them._

_But he is wrong._

_He is wrong, as are all the others, who insist that they will find the broken halves of their family again, even if it takes all of their natural lives._

_Father is wrong because they do not see her ever again._

_And he is also wrong, in saying "we."_

_Because soon after, Father is taken away too._

_He was only supposed to "talk" with them._

_With the people who took them in vehicles, who put them on ships._

_Who split their clan into pieces, who razed their land, planted crops, building huge structures on the land where they had lived for centuries._

_Who "needed" Atli's home to expand their own, always to expand, to feed hungry construction workers and laborers, who in turn built their great ships, and created their great ore drilling stations._

_All for the glory of the cause, for the exploration of the final frontier._

_Father is only supposed to talk to them._

_He was supposed to come back._

_Atli waits for him to come back._

_But he doesn't._

_He doesn't, and when they are left on Holthas, a frozen ice planet with only the clothes on their back and some scarce supplies, spread out over miles and miles in long-abandoned IMC headquarters, Atli is left without the two people who'd made up their entire world._

_They are left knowing that they, and what remains of their people, have been left to die._

Bloodhound's eyes drift to Mirage's face as he begins to stir, his eyes fluttering, his cheeks twitching. 

They don't know what to make of Mirage. 

Caustic is easy to understand. Science, objective truths, logic. A sadistic love of objectifying and quantifying human behaviors. He doesn't care for humans. He does not identify with the human race. 

But Mirage is strange.

Mirage is contradictory.

He seems like an IMC mercenary, but isn't a quarter as hard or cruel as the ones Bloodhound has known. 

He has a wild streak, perhaps a touch of cruelty in him, but he also has a heart that cannot always reconcile his sadistic urges with his more altruistic soul. 

Bloodhound doesn't quite understand him, but that is alright.

The universe is made up of mysteries. 

They will simply have to ask this one what he was thinking, when he managed to save their life and his own from what seemed like an impossible situation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah you heard that right, a CAUSTIC, carrying his TEAM? 
> 
> clearly a fanfic now, that would never happen in real life. 
> 
> Anyway, notes:
> 
> \- the song that Bloodhound's mother sings to them is the world’s oldest known secular Norse song from Codex Runicus. you can listen to it here: https://www.realmofhistory.com/2017/08/02/oldest-norse-song-codex-runicus/. She would be singing it in old Norse, but I thought I might as well provide a translation so you can understand. song is beautiful, I think. 
> 
> \- I've mixed Bloodhound's Norse religion with some new age space faring contemporary culture because I wanna emphasize: Bloodhound's people are a special group that chose to split off from a heavily industrialized star-obsessed society that only wanted to expand its resources by conquering and settling other planets. they had lived on the planet for generations, just doing their own thing, but because the planet is heavily industrialized, it began to force people, including indigenous tribes that had split off from society to live on their own, to leave. when they didn't comply, they would get court orders to forcibly remove them for "safety reasons." they could then transport them to another "settlement," but this is just a public-opinion-friendly method of killing them. they leave them on planets that you CAN survive on...but it's not likely. they leave you with IMC resources, BUT they are spread out at multiple facilities, and people are likely to die along the way. 
> 
> \- I am a huge fan of Star Trek, plus Titanfall/Apex are set in the future, where star travel is clearly possible. Religions change with the times. Even an old Norse religion that was embraced by a particular tribe, descended from those who practiced it long ago. The names are the same, the stories the same, language, culture, but the soul is different.


	16. Your Time is Not Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so nice, holy shit. Thank you so much for leaving such nice comments. I'm really glad you guys are having fun, I really just thought I was the only one who'd like this kind of thing. 
> 
> It just makes me feel loads better to know that other people also crave this conteeeent.

"Oh my god, this again?" Mirage groans. "I didn't think I'd need to be drugged up again so damn soon."

"Welcome to the Apex Games," Bloodhound says with some amusement. 

Mirage, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, turns quickly to stare at them (wincing as his head spins even worse). 

Bloodhound is alive.

They're ok.

Their clothes are in tatters, their voice sounds tired and hoarse, and strange without the mask, but they are ok. 

"Bloodhound! I thought you were a goner," Mirage says with a sigh of relief. "I thought I was a goner. That ring is a nightmare, it almost killed the both of us."

"It does encourage one to move quickly." 

"Ah, my leg," the man in the ripped-up yellow suit groans, rubbing at it furiously with his hand. "That fat sack of crap shot me right here after he shot you."

"How did you kill him?" Bloodhound asks.

Mirage scratches his head awkwardly.

"I...didn't. The ring was coming, so he left with the robot. I don't know why, since the thing was definitely down and out, but whatever..." 

"So he is still alive, but without a squad," Bloodhound says. "Must be lonely." 

Mirage's eyes flutter back to their face, or rather, their beaten-up mask. 

"Your...voice is...different than I had expected."

"How so?"

"I dunno...thought maybe it'd be...it's uh...softer." 

He wants to say it's much gentler than he'd imagined it would be, almost familiar, but he feels a little awkward saying that. 

"Um...where are we?"

Bloodhound readjusts their mask. 

"Bunker. Caustic is keeping watch while we heal. I will join him soon to discuss strategy. If you are able, you may join us."

"Sounds great," Mirage says. A sharp jolt of pain like a bad cramp turns his leg inside out. "Someone out there really has it out for me. I've been punched more times than I can count in the last 24 hours." 

"Your face does seem to draw such attention," Bloodhound says quietly. 

Mirage feels an unexpected rush of warmth, and could've sworn he heard a teasing note in Bloodhound's statement. 

"Well, normally it does well with the ladies." 

Bloodhound pulls at the tattered cloth around their chest. Their fingers absentmindedly brush over their red, exposed skin, still healing from their previous wounds. Mirage's eyes are drawn involuntarily to the spot, then hastily flicker away, making him feeling strange. 

"I imagine you do very well with women out on the Frontier." 

"What makes you say that?" Mirage asks. 

"They are used to tired, rough-faced and rough-hearted men who have experienced the brutality of Frontier living and planet settling. Seeing a man such as yourself must be...a welcome change." 

The man grins. 

"You saying I'm just a pretty city boy?" 

"No. Just that you look like one." 

Mirage lets out a laugh that changes into a pained grunt as his lungs suddenly feel tight, like his ribs have constricted around them. 

"I'll take that as a compliment. And you're right, I did amazing with women on Frontier planets. I even did alright with men. Some types, anyway." 

Bloodhound's head moves almost sharply at that statement, like they are surprised.

"What? Your religion have something against a little hot dog fencing?"

Now Bloodhound's head moves much quicker as they openly stare at him head-on. 

"Excuse me?"

"That's what they called it on Tristan." 

The hunter stares at him.

Mirage stares determinedly at the ceiling, wanting to laugh at his own joke, but also refusing to give in. 

And then, to his amazement, and immense satisfaction, Bloodhound lets out a laugh. 

A small, quiet, reserved laugh that is buried in the mask. 

Coming out in small, restrained bursts.

But a laugh, undeniably. 

Mirage laughs too. 

They laugh together, Bloodhound for a short time, Mirage for much longer, giggling to himself, thinking about where he'd first heard the term. 

"A guy I met on Tristan called it that," Mirage chuckles. "Hilarious guy. Met him at a news station, we hit it off immediately. Like you said, I'm a pretty city boy and he was pretty cosmopolitan himself. He was a really sweet guy too. He must've recognized my face, but didn't say anything, it was really nice of him..." 

Bloodhound tilts their head at him, fingers falling off their knee. 

"Why would he have recognized your face?"

Mirage goes silent.

Shit.

Why did he say that? 

"Ah...I was just...on the news...earlier... I...executed some people that morning. You know. Frontier militia. He had reported on it, probably, I mean every reporter in the sector did. IMC came under a lot of fire for that. We left soon after." 

He doesn't dare look at Bloodhound.

_He expected Talos to hit him._

_To run at him, kicking and screaming, tearing at his hair, biting, clawing, melting down the way he always did._

_And he welcomed it._

_Wanted him to do it._

_Wanted him to make him feel something._

_But Talos just stares at him._

_His face is so pale._

_His eyes haunt Elliott long after he leaves Solace. Red from crying. Strained, from not sleeping._

_Full of sorrow, regret, mourning._

_Hurt._

_Confusion, as though he wants to hit him or hug him, but he's not sure which._

_But it isn't Talos who hits him._

_It is Warren._

_Warren, the peacekeeper, who would never hurt a fly, who never sided with any of his brothers, preferring instead to calmly weigh their arguments, measure their perspectives, never resort to violence._

_Warren, who punches him with a surprising amount of power for the weakest of four- now three- brothers._

_He tastes the dirt in his mouth, feels a cut bleeding on the inside of his cheek._

_He rolls over, trying to get up, but Warren punches him again._

_And again._

_He feels so skinny. So weightless, sitting on top of his youngest brother. And yet, he is whaling on him with all of his might._

_And Elliott, having never seen his brother like this, lets him because what else can he do?_

_Hurt another brother?_

_He'd rather die, here and now, with Warren's  hands around his throat._

_Then maybe he'll get what he deserves._

_Their mother pulls Warren off, but he is still screaming. Shrieking something at Elliott that he will only remember later, when he's on a transport ship off of Solace, the words echoing in his head._

_"Liam always defended you. Called you a trickster, but one with his heart in the right place. Well he was right about the first fucking thing. You tricked us all into thinking you belonged in this family."_

"I never heard my brother swear before that."

Mirage's lips tremble.

His mouth hangs open rather stupidly as he realizes that he said that aloud. 

"I mean...he was...pro-Frontier Militia. He was furious with me. Called me a traitor. Beat me up. I let him, of course. He was a scrawny scientist type, you know. Probably still is. I haven't seen him in years. About six, now, I think it is. And my other brother, Talos. He always had a temper, but oddly enough, he never yelled at me about this. He left and went off to fight for the IMC, but...I never heard from him again. And my mother didn't either. She thinks he switched sides. Went to fight with the Frontier Militia. He's probably dead." 

Mirage stops, realizing that his voice is beginning to break up. 

Fuck, he needs to stop. 

"...I know what it's like to miss your family," Bloodhound says softly. "There is no shame in it."

He doesn't want Bloodhound's sympathy, he realizes. Doesn't want their softness, their gentleness, not right now. 

It reminds him too much of Warren. The Warren he used to know, not the one he remembers seeing last. 

Kind face, always so affectionate when looking at him, warped with pain and hatred, as though he were a total stranger (and rightly so, his subconscious notes miserably, his heart stinging as painfully as if the wound were still fresh, after all these years). 

"I don't fucking miss them. Warren was a fucking pussy, who didn't realize that life isn't always going to be about compromises and 'well-reasoned discussions.' He-he was complicit with the rats of the IMC too, he probably caused more deaths than I did, but he has the nerve to judge me like that? And Talos, well, he was a fucking idiot. He worked for the IMC, then switched sides, probably, to fight for the Militia. He deserved to go missing for being that fucking idiotic. And Liam, oh don't get me started on Liam! The worst out of all of them! I hated him the most! Always acted like he was better than me, always thought he knew me soooo well! 'Little Elliott will find his way! I just know he will!' What a joke. A pathetic, miserable joke that he could never tell quite right, because it wasn't ever funny! I hated all of my brothers. Hated them." 

It all comes out in a whirlwind of words etched with pain. 

All of a sudden he's being assaulted by a thousand memories, of his childhood, playing with his siblings, their mother always watching nearby with a smile on her face. 

All overshadowed by the hurt in their eyes when he'd come home. 

A home that didn't feel like one anymore. 

"And I hated my mother too! I mean. I didn't hate her, she just...she just sided with them is all. Made me feel like-like shit. When I needed her to tell me she forgave me, or that-that she could forgive me one day. But she didn't. She just let them all take their shot at me, and then she just- whatever. This doesn't matter. I don't know why I'm talking about this, it's stupid. I'm going for a walk." 

He rolls over to his left, still not looking at Bloodhound. 

He can't, it's too embarrassing, too shameful. 

"My family members are all dead." 

He freezes, feeling his stomach churning unpleasantly. 

His head goes blank all of sudden in shock. 

Bloodhound's mask is completely off. 

He can hear it as they speak, can hear a small thud as they place it on the ground. 

"I miss them."

They say it so simply. 

So matter-of-factly, as though stating the date and time. 

He grits his teeth in pain as he stands up. 

"Well, aren't you lucky?" 

Mirage knows he shouldn't have said it.

It's the worst thing he's ever said, possibly.

It's callous, it's cruel, it doesn't make sense, it's horrible.

But he had to say it, because something cruel and callous and irrational and horrible lives in his chest. Had reared up like an angry viper to lash out at Bloodhound, for daring to sound like a brother he had loved very much. 

"I'm lucky," Bloodhound repeats. 

They stand up.

Mirage, in spite of himself, turns to look at them. 

And he finds himself pinned against one of the glass windows of Bunker, Bloodhound's face inches from theirs, hand on their throat. 

"I'm lucky, to have had a family and a clan that I loved more than anything in the universe taken away from me? Treated like dogs and thrown into the wild, to be culled, and shot at and killed for sport when we weren't dying fast enough? I'm lucky to have seen the old and sick, honored members of our family, our clan, afraid to slow down the group, profess their love and admiration for all of us before choosing to run away, hide, and allow themselves to die? I am fortunate, favored by the Allfather, to have seen my mother and father taken away from me? To have lost my home, my people, my friends, my family?" 

"B-Bloodhound, I- I'm-listen, I didn't mean, I wasn't thin-" 

But their knife is in their hand now.

It traces a vein on Mirage's neck slowly, delicately. 

He can feel the restraint in their fingers, the power and control they are exerting in only caressing his neck, not piercing it. 

They are oddly beautiful in this moment, their eyes ferocious and wild and so vibrantly  _alive._

_He has the bizarre urge to run his finger along the scar of their right eye._

"You are ungrateful," Bloodhound whispers. "Your family is still alive. You hurt them. You chose not to mend their wounds, or your own. Your pride, your guilt, whatever it is, is preventing you from moving on. And you are here now because something inside of you is twisted up and broken, and rather than confront it, you allow it to control you. You allow it to continue hurting you, like shards of glass that you simply won't pull out of your heart. Maybe you think you deserve it, maybe you can't bear to part with a pain that has become a part of you. But at the end of the day, you lashed out at me because you think you cannot be forgiven, that you're too far gone now. But the truth is that you don't know yourself. You don't know your place in the universe, and do not understand the universe. And that is why you are broken. Not because of something that happened to you, or even something you did. You do not know yourself, and you can't bear to face a family that you're afraid knows you better than you do. If we win this game, Allfather willing, try and remember that your time in this world is finite, too short to hurt people who care about you." 

They let him go. 

And stalk away, leaving him alone, still leaning against the wall, feeling as small and insignificant as a worm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elliott is a regional champ at hot dog fencing. 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> \- Was a little bummed that no one commented on how Liam's words to Elliott just before his execution were very similar to Bloodhound's words earlier, relating to accepting one's death with dignity. 
> 
> \- I think Elliott is kind of a glory-seeker and an adventurer who wants to stand out from his three older brothers. This is actually canon, since his backstory is that he wanted to be an Apex champion, he has three brothers, and is a trickster/prankster because he wanted to stand out. But something implicit in that canonical characterization is that he's willing to...murder people and participate in a blood sport to stand out. In a game, it's fine cuz no one's really dying. In real life, that would be some form of sociopathy, lmfao. but anyway. I think that aspect of his character is interesting to explore as a type of sadism. And....we ARE going to touch on that bad boy. 
> 
> -Bloodhound's acceptance of fate is a foil to Mirage's tendency to think on his feet and never accept losing scenarios. Bloodhound's belief in a cosmic order, and a form of predestination, contrasts with Mirage's belief that the world is full of chaos, and people are unpredictable. They are, however, similar in that both are cocky, even if Bloodhound's cockiness comes from believing only fate will decide when they die, and Mirage believes he's too smart to die, and both are fundamentally not evil people, just a little lost, a little broken up inside. I think that this is fairly close to canon, which is kind of why they work so well in my mind, and why I like to write them together (that and I think they're both sexy. go figure. horny on main). 
> 
> \- ALSO. I think the idea of Mirage being distant from his family WOULD naturally contrast with Bloodhound's love for their own family and the brutal way they were taken from them.
> 
> \- ALSO, Jesus Christ, Mirage, you have a lot of baggage in this fanfic. I don't know why I gave him so much, he literally never shuts up about PORK chops in game.


	17. Have You Prepared for Your End? I Have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hnnnnnnngh, more Bloodhound backstory, let's go.
> 
> Their story is really interesting too, can't wait to get more into it.
> 
> But I'm frigging tired, so it'll have to wait till later.

_Atli sees Alda lagging behind the others._

_They see the old woman staggering across freezing ice, her balance unstable, her toes frozen and numb, her heels red with peeling skin._

_She smiles bravely at them, her old, frail hands patting their head slowly, but deep down, they know she is suffering._

_She is hurting._

_They all are._

_Walking across the ice, knowing where to go based on the maps they had been left , but the gesture is mocking._

_It is malicious, giving them somewhere to go, a direction, but knowing they will not survive the journey._

_And if they do, it will be to another building with poor heating, poor lighting, and only one generator, which will only last a month or two._

_"It's intentional," Armann whispers to them._

_Armann is fifteen, much older than Atli, but he is the only person in their clan who is even close to their age. The mothers and their younger children had been sent somewhere else._

_It is mostly men, and old people, who have been abandoned here._

_"They tell the people living up there," he murmurs, pointing up at the stars, "That we were just moved. That we are safe and content living in the 'wilderness' of our new homes. They think we're just savages who can just live in any woods, in any system, on any planet. They do not know what happens here. What we have to do to survive. They do not know that we are being killed."_

_"Armann! Don't scare them!" his father, Arnor, barks sternly. Ever since Atli's father had been taken away, Arnor had taken them in as a surrogate of sorts, always making sure they ate, were warm enough, had sturdy shoes, made from the hide of indigenous animals._

_"It's only the truth. They have to know the truth," Armann insists. "They want us all to die down here. Do you think Alda will be able to make the next trip, in two weeks? Or how about Brynja, or Eir? They are getting slower by the day. Food is scarce, these 'safe' havens are spread out intentionally across barren stretches of wastelands. Do you want to know why I think they separated us?"_

_He is scaring Atli._

_Atli backs up, but Armann keeps coming towards them, waving his arms wildly._

_"They're raping our women and daughters and whoring them out to the rest of the quadrant and they sent all of us men, and you, here to cull out the weak. Anyone who's still alive by the time they come back will be rounded up and sent to work at the mines or the ore refineries or anywhere that a disposable work force is needed!"_

_"That's enough!" Arnor roars, slapping his son hard against the back of the head._

_But the damage is done._

_Atli runs out of the room, heart overwrought with horror._

_They want their mother._

_They want their father._

_They want their Ylva._

_They want to go home._

_This horrible place is not a home._

_They stare miserably at the loud little generator that burns at the center of this particular facility._

_Could what Armann said be true?_

_Could they really be so cruel?_

_Atli had assumed that the IMC simply didn't care about them, and didn't even think about how poorly the generators would hold up._

_But maybe Armann was right, maybe they had intentionally left generators that couldn't last longer than a month._

_Maybe they were forcing them from place to place, trying to "kill off" the weak and leave only the strong, who would then be so desperate to leave this wretched planet that they'd jump at the chance to go, even if it meant being separated and enslaved._

_Tears sting at Atli's eyes._

_How could people be so mean?_

_They flinch as they hear the sound of someone's heavy footsteps coming down the stairs leading into the basement._

_They quickly rub at their eyes, not wanting to look like a baby._

_"Do not be ashamed of your tears, my child," Alda says, her wrinkled face kind, but rough from exposure, from the harsh weather that always roared outside. "You must let it out sometimes."_

_"Did...did you hear what Armann said?" Atli sniffs, still not looking at the old woman. "I...I don't want anyone else to die..."_

_"We all die, my child. We must accept that our lives must end someday. It is what makes life so meaningful. Its finite nature. If we all lived forever, would we ever feel the need to see everything there is to see? To know what we can know? To love the sun, the moon, the stars as deeply as we love the water that sustains us, the earth that holds us? Life ends, and that is why it is so special. That is why we live. So that when our time comes, as the gods will it, we will know that our existence was meaningful."_

_Atli can't stop crying._

_They rush at her and hug her tightly, terrified of letting go._

_"I don't want you to die...I don't want any of us to die...I want to go home!"_

_"We are home, dear. We are home wherever we are together," Alda says gently._

_"But when you're gone, when you die, when the others die-"_

_"We'll always be with you," the old woman says, holding Atli's face gently between her old, wrinkled hands. They had been soft once, skillful with instruments, holding newborn babies, and braiding the hair of children as she told them stories. But they're rough now, the skin cracked and bleeding, the nails brittle. "We will never leave you, do you understand? The sky may be cloudy, but the stars never disappear. Just because you cannot see us or hear us, does not mean we are gone. We'll be with you, every step of your journey. Forever."_

_She rubs at Atli's cheeks, chasing their tears._

_They sniff._

_"But...if Armann is right...they're doing horrible things to us. They're killing us and enslaving us. What can we do?"_

_An iron glint shines in the old woman's eyes._

_And for a brief moment, they can suddenly see Alda when she was younger, a warrior known among the tribe for fighting an eldingarbeit with only her bare hands and tearing its horns right off its head just to stab it through the eyes._

_"Survive. Be free. That is our defiance, Atli. We must survive. We must resist. We must be who we are, proudly, and live. Promise me you will do that. Promise me that if you must, you will leave us. You must continue on. Promise me, Atli."_

_They do._

Bloodhound watches as their prey, a lone squad mate, whose team is far off, looting another area, ducks down over a supply bin. 

Their footsteps are light as a feather, their breathing made indiscernible by the mask.

They walk up behind the unsuspecting victim. 

The person suddenly stands straight up, their primal prey instincts put on alert by nothing in particular, perhaps simple paranoia.

But it doesn't matter.

Bloodhound plunges their knife easily under their armpit, twisting it deeply, directly, into the heart. 

He drops as heavy and limp as a bag of potatoes, his body a mess of heavy limbs and organs.

The man can't even scream.

He just stares up at Bloodhound, terrified, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish, eyes wide. 

Bloodhound crouches beside him. 

They gently pull his weapon from his side, where he'd dropped it, and place it on his chest.

Carefully, they wrap his hands around it. 

And as the life begins to bleed out of his eyes, leaving them empty, they close his eyes for him. 

They go back to Bunker.

Inside, they find a few bodies, some of which are a day old, some of which are more recent.

Caustic had been busy, racking up at least five kills all on his own. 

He looks up, sees the blood on Bloodhound's gloves, and his eyes light up.

"Another foolish straggler? How many is that?"

"Only two," Bloodhound says. "This last one's squad may come looking for him."

"Excellent," Caustic says darkly, looking fervently at his gas traps, all lined up and ready to go along the wall. Bloodhound stares at them with some displeasure. They are a hunter, and a proficient one, with a lust for the kill, but Caustic's traps straddle the line between acceptable and dishonorable. They are tricky and take both skill and intelligence to handle, but at the same time, they do not give the prey a fighting chance.

Bloodhound does like to fight their prey on even ground. 

They are not a simple animal, a predator trying to secure its supper, but a hunter, one that enjoys the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of risking one's life to end another's. 

Caustic's methods are perhaps too efficient and swift for their taste, lacking a warrior's sportsmanship.

As if reading their mind, Caustic looks at them and says, "Not to your taste, perhaps, but they fulfill mine." 

They merely nod. 

"It has been thirty hours. The ring will close in six, and according to the beacon, it will encompass half of Bunker. We will need to abandon Bunker sooner."

"And why is that?"

"Because enemy squads will be waiting near the edges of the ring to catch anyone who is attempting to escape it. They will have the high ground and will be at an advantage, defending against squads on the low ground, with less aerial perspective. It would be better to leave sooner and catch squads off guard, or pass through areas they will attempt to hold."

"I concur," Caustic says. 

He glances out the glass window at the narrow hall leading to the stairs. 

"Will the reprobate be ready to move soon? We should leave now."

"I will go check." 

"If not, we could simply leave him here," Caustic says harshly. "He's a liability anyway."

Although Bloodhound still feels anger coiling in their stomach at the holographic trickster, they still feel the need to defend him against Caustic. 

"That liability is the only reason I am still here." 

Caustic recoils ever so slightly, as though surprised to hear Bloodhound defend anyone. 

"Perhaps it would be easier for me to go alone," he says coldly. 

"If you feel it best," Bloodhound says coolly back. "But as the ring gets smaller, only the best and more experienced competitors are left. They know your tricks. And they know your weaknesses. It's easy to catch prey that is unaware. The smaller the ring gets, the farther their senses reach, Caustic." 

Caustic stares haughtily at his teammate, his eyes sharp and narrow, running over Bloodhound's mask, reading their body language with cold calculation. 

Bloodhound, expression inscrutable through the mask, merely stares back. 

After a few moments, the broad scientist lets out a huff of derision. 

"Very well. Because you two still may have some uses yet..." 

"Glad to be of service," Bloodhound says flatly. "I will get Mirage." 

Caustic jerks his head in assent. 

He can be difficult sometimes, but he at least knows reason.

Bloodhound descends the long staircase, their feet instinctively landing lightly, not making a sound upon the polished metal. 

They see Mirage standing up, inspecting his torn-up suit with some amusement. 

They watch him for a moment. 

He had saved their life. 

Had closed up their wounds, allowed the med kit to save them, dragged both of them into the ring. 

They haven't ever before needed to be saved by anyone in the Apex Games.

* * *

  _Atli holds Alda's hand, but it grows colder and colder by the hour._ _It is so frail._  

_She grips their hand tightly back at first, but as time goes on, as the sun goes down, she begins to shiver. Her hand begins to shake._

_They keep moving, but she moves slower and slower._

_All of the elders are._

_Atli can feel her slipping away, but they keep pulling anyway._

_Even to the point where they are dragging her._

_"Come on, Alda, almost there," they say, trying to force energy into their voice, their teeth chattering. "Almost there."_

_But they aren't._

_And Alda knows it. They can see it in her sorrowful eyes._

_"Don't give up. Please don't give up."_

_When she stops moving, they begin to cry again, their tears almost immediately freezing to their cheeks._

_"Please...just another step...just..."_

_She kneels so that she can look into their eyes, her hands on theirs._

_"I will not hold any of you back any more," she says loudly._

_The others turn, frozen on their feet, to look at her._

_The elders, barely able to remain standing, straighten their backs a little as she addresses them._

_"I am an old woman," she says. "I have been present for all of your births. Helped with most of them. Took care of you as babies, sat you on my lap, taught you the constellations and the stories of our people. Seen you grow into fine young men. Have children of your own, for me to take care of and teach. I have seen the seasons come and go, and known true pain, true joy, true love, living among you for the past 87 years. They have been wonderful. I have been truly happy to be alive. But I am afraid...that now, I must leave you."_

_Several men come forward to argue with her._

_Arnor, his face stricken, comes forward._

_"I will carry you, Alda," he says firmly. "You will make it to the next shelter, with us. And all of you who are struggling, we-"_

_"I do not speak for the others, but I will not be responsible for slowing the group down, for forcing our children," she says, pointing at Atli and Armann, "To endure this vicious wind and ferocious cold for any longer than they must. They are strong, and you are all strong, but you must save your energy. You must not carry dead weight such as myself with you if you are to survive. My time is now. The Allfather wills it."_

_She says it with such finality._

_Such tranquility._

_But her small, skinny body, once powerful and strong, is shaking._

_Her voice is powerful, but her eyes are weak, their light fading._

_Arnor, tears frozen to his face, shakes his head, but he seems to know it's pointless._

_Atli clings to Alda, pressing their face to her stomach._

_"Please don't go..." they say softly. "Please...Please...stay with me..."_

_She gives them one last pat on the head._

_"Little Atli...you will understand, one day."_

_And she turns away from her clan._

_She turns and begins to walk in the direction they had come._

_And with some hesitation, the other elders of their group, the ones who couldn't bear to walk another step, turn and begin to follow her._

_And with every step, as if their resolves had been strengthened, they move faster._

_More confidently._

_Until they are walking beside her proudly, their backs straight, heads held high._

_They link hands._

_And she leads them away from their children, and their children's children._

_They embrace death with dignity._

_Atli wants to cry, but it's so cold, so bitterly freezing, and the wind cuts them too deeply._

_They watch them go for as long as they can, long after the rest of the group stops, but eventually they cannot watch any longer._

_They move forward._

_Even later, when they are safely at the next shelter, they do not cry._

_They want to._

_Try to think of Alda, to mourn her, and the others who had died._

_But for some reasons, the tears won't come._

_They have lost something today, something important, but they're not sure what._

_And Alda is not here to tell them what it is._

"Bloodhound."

They do not look at Mirage.

They do not feel like talking to him, not yet.

"Bloodhound, um, listen-"

"I did not thank you for saving me," Bloodhound says shortly. "I thank you now."

"Uh...yeah. You saved me plenty of times before that, so...consider it me paying you back... I think I still owe you a few..."

Bloodhound makes a sharp, jerky motion with their head. 

"Are you ready to travel?"

"Yeah. I don't dig this fashion statement," Mirage grumbles, holding out his sleeveless arms. "But it's tolerable. And I'm not hurt or anything anymore, not really, so-"

"Very well. We will leave immediately." 

They turn away from him.

"Wai-wait! Bloodhound, I wanted to say, I needed to say... I'm sorry. It was stupid of me to say, and it was insensitive. Obviously you've...been through a lot. I didn't mean what I said. Of course you're not...lucky. I guess...my family is a sore subject. I didn't mean what I said about them either," Mirage admits, scratching his head awkwardly. "It just hurts thinking about that shit. And I took it out on you because you...you just reminded me of...someone. But it was wrong of me, and I'm sorry. We don't have to be friends or anything, you don't have to forgive me or something, I just wanted you to know that."

He sounds very awkward, like a little kid who's not used to apologizing to people. 

But he also sounds very genuine.

Bloodhound doesn't move for a few seconds.

Then they begin to climb the stairs. 

"I understand, Elliott." 

Mirage brightens at the sound of his name, his real name. 

"But I also want you to understand," Bloodhound says slowly, deliberately. "That what I said before is correct. You do not know yourself. And that makes you unpredictable. As you said, we do not have to be friends. But we are team mates. And if I can't trust you in battle, if you do not trust yourself, then we will have problems further down the road. Do you understand?" 

"...yeah. I think so," Mirage says reluctantly. 

"Good." 

* * *

_Armann cried and cried and cried when Arnor was dragged off by grimmur, the six legged, clawed ice beasts that inhabit the mountains further north. They cornered the group while crossing through the mountain path, splitting them up into three, dragging down Arnor, Viktor, Kristjan, and Einar, shaking their bodies to pieces in their great white maws, blood splattering on snow and bones splintering against rocks._

_Atli wants to mourn Arnor, but they are too busy pulling Armann to safety, leading what's left of their own fragmented group down the safest possible path out of the mountains._

_And when Armann keeps crying, keeps shouting that they are all going to die, and their mothers are being raped, Atli slaps him hard across the face._

_Multiple times._

_Because they cannot bear to hear it anymore._

_Because their mother was taken, and their father was taken, and Alda is gone, and their whole clan is dissolving._

_Because there is a great deal of pain in this universe, but no time to cry about it._

_Armann stops crying then, seeing something dark and serious in Atli's gaze, something he's never seen in his friend before._

_Their group manages to find one of the other two groups at the next safe house._

_Most of the men in the second group, however, are injured. And the third group is nowhere to be found._

_Atli, freshly thirteen, volunteers to go to the pass to confirm who has died, and possibly look for signs of where the rest of their clan has gone._

_The older men want to protest, but they are in no state to do so._

_They reluctantly allow them and a small group of young men, none of whom are older than 19, to go see what had happened._

_It is Atli who sees the bodies, but does not linger, doesn't even glance at their fallen clan mates for longer than a brief, cursory scan to ascertain who is dead, only looking towards the grimmur's tracks with a calculating eye._

_Atli, who follows them and the pools of blood they left behind, with the band of volunteers._

_And although Atli is young, they are also observant._

_Quick on their feet, quiet, naturally patient._

_The older teenagers are adept hunters themselves, but their eyes are not as sharp. They water in the wind and they miss tracks that Atli can see easily._

_Atli hadn't been much of a hunter before Holthas, reluctant to kill, not fond of hurting living, breathing things._

_They had preferred watching animals and birds pass by with their sharp eyes, not hunting but enjoying the view._

_But when they find Arnor, his body torn in two, being devoured by grimmur, his head discarded several meters away from them, they forget why they are reluctant to kill._

_They had never felt the desire to hurt any creature, human or not, before that moment._

_But upon seeing the man who had treated them like his own child, had made them new shoes out of_   _bráð pelts, had hugged them after a long night of nightmares, with his body mutilated, eyes still wide open with pain, something had shifted in them._

_Something had been pushed out of place by Alda's departure._

_Now it bends._

_And then it snaps._

_And Atli, barely a teenager now, is not afraid anymore._

_And after a long night, t_ _hey carry the bodies of slain grimmur back to their clan, Atli leading them, a grimmur head on a stick in their hands._

_Most of the men who had come with them are only scraped up and bruised._

_Atli is unharmed._

_There is blood on their shirt, in their hair, but none of it is their own._

_Armann, a little nervous around Atli now, nervously points out that there is blood on Atli's cheeks and chin._

_But Atli wears it proudly, doesn't wash it off. They run their hand down their face and say that they have earned this war paint._

_The clan sets up multiple fires, and almost miraculously, the cutting wind stops._

_As if to grudgingly give them this one unspoiled victory._

_They roast the bodies, give what's left of their clan the closest thing they've had to a feast in two years._

_And they all toast to Atli._

_But they all agree, Atli isn't quite right anymore, doesn't do them proper justice._

_That night, the clan decides, their name will be Bloodhound._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> \- this may shock you, but Bloodhound's backstory is going to get a whole lot darker. I really want you to understand: Bloodhound used to be a gentle kid, who didn't like to hurt anyone or anything. BOY. Does that change. It starts with losing their family, and then just gets worse and worse as they begin to lose the people they care about, and begin to adapt to living in their harsh environment. 
> 
> \- Mirage has not been forgiven, only ghosted. Don't worry, I'm on it. 
> 
> \- Caustic is still a stink machine. Hmmm. anyway. thanks for reading, I really appreciate it! And i read every comment, and love all of them, thank you so much!


	18. Come Get Some

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To try and make sure I don't stay up till 6 am, ruining my sleep schedule and my life, I have decided to update this fic earlier rather than later in the day... 
> 
> Which is to say....4 am. 
> 
> Hurrah. Progress.
> 
> I hate myself.

"God, I'm starving," Mirage murmurs as he plops down on a small rock. 

Caustic is off in the distance, inspecting the walls of a mountain pass, setting up one of his traps. 

"Out of rations?" Bloodhound asks. 

They sit some distance away from him, legs neatly crossed. They hide in the shadow of a large rock near the pass, both having been told by Caustic to wait while he "secured" an entrance. 

"No, they just taste like shit and are like, the bare minimum of nutrients a person needs to eat over the course of three days. Can't wait to be off this wretched island. There aren't even any fish in the streams or birds I can eat. No offense," he adds for the benefit of Bloodhound's little raven friend, who had caught up with them and had landed on their knee for a rest.

It glares at him now, presumably because it hadn't forgiven him for shoving it off of Bloodhound while they were injured. 

"They will make our victory taste sweeter." 

Mirage smiles.

He likes the confidence. 

"Is Caustic going to be done any time this century?"

Bloodhound considers their team mate.

"He is efficient."

"Does he have to set up traps every time we enter a narrow space?" 

"If someone is following us, we do not want to be caught unawares."

"You'd know if we were being followed, wouldn't you?"

"Not necessarily. The game is a third of the way through. The rookies and the reckless have been purged, leaving the luckier and more experienced players." 

"Yeah but we don't need luck, and we've got you and Human Landfill for experience." 

"Why do you feel the need to refer to him by denigrating nicknames?" Bloodhound asks.

"Something about the guy just reeks, no pun intended, of sleaze is all," Mirage says with a shrug. "Receding hairline, horrible complexion, murmured foul things under his breath when I asked for a pee break. I mean god, you'd think a guy so obviously full of farts would wanna take more poop breaks. Has he pooped in the last day and a half, do you think? Is that what he fills his barrels with?" 

Bloodhound, mask clean of blood, but with the eyes still broken, shakes their head. 

"I doubt it."

They watch as he fiddles with his poison traps.

"His forehead could balance a starship," Mirage says.

"That's very rude."

"It's true, I bet. We could do an experiment. For science."

"Don't antagonize him any further. He already wanted to leave you."

"Shows how not smart he is. I'm the key to success, trust me." 

Bloodhound doesn't respond to that, but their little raven caws at him. 

"We may proceed," Caustic says finally, wiping his gloves on his lab coat, looking imperiously down at his two team mates. 

"About time," Mirage says. "What's at the other end of this pass anyway?"

"The Pit," Bloodhound responds. "We are making a run through here before doubling back for Cascades."

"...Why not just head straight for Cascades?" Mirage asks.

"Pit usually has superior equipment," Caustic answers. "It is worth the detour."

The rookie of the group shrugs.

"If you guys say so. Although I gotta say, whoever's in charge of naming these things should really be more creative. Bridges, Market, Bunker. Not very fun names. I'd definitely call Skull Town the Wild West. Or Boner Town, since it seems like the best place to get fucked." 

Caustic's face twitches with concentrated dislike.

Bloodhound doesn't make a sound, but they do look from Caustic to Mirage as though wondering which one will snap and kill the other first. 

Mirage grins at his two teammates' backs, finding antagonism to be his only entertainment on an otherwise dull walk. It's mostly quiet as they stroll through the mountain pass, with only the very distant sound of gunfire and grenades occasionally disturbing the peace. 

Of course, he finds the lack of general animal noises rather unsettling. The island might be beautiful, but natural it is not. 

Not only is it perfectly clean, without a single cigarette butt or discarded chip bag, but the water is unnaturally blue and the grass a disturbing vibrant green. Rocks rather than being multi-colored and covered with dirt and moisture are a perfect pristine beige with the consistency of sherbet.

 He kicks sand and dirt absentmindedly as he walks, noting how it even feels different than normal sand and dirt. 

He asks Bloodhound if they can feel the difference too and they reply: "This island was artificially grown. Everything from the weather, the dirt, the rivers, the mountains, is controlled by Apex Analytics. They decide weather variables, soil consistency, humidity, temperature, water salinity, and basic conditions out here." 

"A perfect science experiment," Caustic murmurs. 

Bloodhound looks at him, surprised to hear him participate in their conversation. 

"Perhaps. Too many independent variables, I think."

Mirage grins, wondering if Bloodhound is making a joke or saying that entirely seriously.

It's hard to tell with them.

"Pit," so he finds out, is exactly what the name describes. 

It's a circular pit filled with crates and supply bins. It is well lit, with lights all around, and a great circular metal chandelier of sorts hanging overhead with its own lights. 

Mirage throws out a decoy cautiously to see if anyone is lingering in the area. 

The decoy runs for a few meters before stopping, gun in hand, smiling vacantly, talking to no one. 

"How canny," Caustic murmurs. 

"Thank you."

"It's just like you. Entirely devoid of substance."

"I take back the thank you."

They scour the area. 

It has already been looted,  but there are a couple of abandoned boxes of ammo and attachments everywhere. Mirage finds a turbo charger, which Caustic, using a Devotion, could use. Bloodhound switches out their R-99 for an abandoned G7 Scout. 

And then Caustic suddenly looks up, quick as a groundhog popping its head out of a hole.

"One of my traps is deployed. We have company." 

Bloodhound is immediately alert.

They position themselves at the lip of the entrance, crouching down by a crate, prepared to fire at whoever comes through. 

Caustic crouches as well, his Devotion at the ready, hiding at one of the other entrances to the Pit, looking warily behind him. 

And that leaves Mirage.

Who tosses a decoy into the entrance Caustic had indicated. 

Within seconds, it is shot down.

Mirage hurls himself behind the nearest supply bin as bullets whiz through the small area, bouncing off of metal lids and plastic crates, leaving dents in the walls. 

He thinks he's alright, but then a grenade lands right beside his foot. "Ah, shit," he yells. He kicks it with his boot. 

It explodes as it hits the nearest wall, sending huge rock chunks falling to the ground, breaking into pieces on impact. 

He scrambles away from his hiding space, and somehow ends up next to Bloodhound, who is rather calmly shooting into the entrance. "Allfather, give me sight," they murmur. They tap something on their wrist, and some kind of orange scan emits from their suit, the eyes of their mask glowing briefly yellow. 

"Do you see them, Mirage?"

He opens his mouth to ask them what the hell they'd just done, but instead he's interrupted by a man charging in with an R-301 Carbine. His body is outlined with the same orange Bloodhound had just sent out. 

But only for a brief moment, and it hangs where he'd been when Bloodhound had scanned him. 

The man sees Caustic first, and raises his weapon, but the gas expert is faster, shooting him square in the chest before he can even aim. 

The man's two squad mates are more cautious, staying back. 

One of them aims for the now exposed Caustic and lands a shot, which grazes his arm.

The scientist grunts and stumbles back. 

Mirage throws out a decoy to distract some attention away from him. 

But their enemies don't fall for it this time.

Instead, he and Bloodhound both scramble as a thermite grenade is thrown their way. 

Mirage loads his wingman and points wildly at the entrance of the Pit, but his attention is drawn to the sound of banging.

And he sees Bloodhound slamming a large, swarthy man's face into the back of a supply bin lid. 

The lid slams shut, and the man's knees buckle. 

But they pull his head back up and slam it back down again for good measure.

Blood pours out his nostrils and stains the white lid of the supply bin as they release him and he falls over it, eventually rolling off and landing on the floor, limp as a deflated balloon. 

He wants to yell out some praise, but he ducks instead as he hears gunfire again, then hears Caustic swearing. 

He sees his team mate ducking behind an overturned crate, zigging and zagging, trying to switch between shooting at his opponent and avoiding their fire. 

Mirage darts forward and runs up behind the last remaining enemy. 

"Sup."

The man turns fast, to his credit, but before he's even fully facing him, he's down, his stomach peppered with bullets from Mirage's wingman. 

Before he even hits the ground, he's dead. 

Caustic, bleeding from the arm, straightens from behind the crate.

He doesn't thank Mirage, but he does nod curtly as he goes over to the man's body, intending to loot it. 

The rookie grins. Typical. 

He then turns to Bloodhound.

Who is in the process of shooting the last member of the attacking squad with their G7, who is somehow still conscious despite getting his face beat in. 

"Wait! Wait, I surrender, please!" the man yells. "I'll forfeit now, I'll-" 

Mirage laughs. "Shit out of luck today, buddy."

He's about to tell him that they're feeling generous today, that they'll let him run off, escape this Apex Game with his life, but only if he tells people who it was that spared it, but he doesn't get the chance. 

Bloodhound, without pause, raises their weapon and shoots him directly between the eyes. 

The man's head snaps back almost comically and splits open on the hard ground. The back of his skull, cracked open by the force of his fall, spills out in a shower of blood, staining the dirt in a grizzly crown of scarlet. 

Mirage stares at the man's face, frozen in place. 

He blinks and sees Liam, lying on the ground, and feels something catch in his throat. 

_Not again, not again, stop it._

He can't do this every damn time, he just can't. 

He blinks, but Liam is still there. 

And he turns away. 

He can feel Bloodhound's eyes on them, but they don't say a word. 

Caustic jabs his arm with a med kit.

"Adequate," he grunts at his team.

Mirage, shaken by what he'd seen, lets out an airy laugh. 

"Typical, right, Hound?"

"Do not call me that."

Bloodhound's raven flutters down onto the dead man's head.

It pecks at the hole the bullet had carved through him. 

Mirage, feeling sick but not willing to show it to the two seasoned killers, looks away. 

It's ridiculous. 

He's killed plenty of people.

Even enjoyed it before.

But something has changed within him.

Something had shifted when he'd entered the ring.

And now he wonders if it'll ever shift back, or if he'll be stuck like this forever.

With a conscience again, something he'd worked so hard to repress.

* * *

The bartender of the Apex Luxury Lounge spits at the bucket underneath his bar. 

It's packed tonight, with people from all over the sector, and perhaps even farther than that, crowding here to watch the Games live.

Of course, there were better places to watch. 

There was the Marquis, an exclusive, officially Apex-sponsored night club, where you could watch the Games from a blimp broadcasting directly above Kings Canyon. 

There was Bossa Nova, a pricey new age contemporary lounge for smoking exotic, hallucinatory, highly experimental drugs while sitting on the floor, half naked, with beautiful waitresses and waiters serving you, and access to the special hidden cameras, directly hidden in specific areas of the ring and not just hovering over it, where the general public's cameras were situated. 

And of course there the Havoc, named after the popular weapon, a trendy electro funk dance hall and bar where you'd always find someone drunk enough or with low enough standards to grind against the whole night.

But he personally prefers the Apex Luxury Lounge, named after its single, unisex bathroom, covered in graffiti, the dingy, poorly lit stage where some drunken sod always got up on to sing bad renditions of the latest Raul Stiglitz album,  and its unique, high quality wooden bar, covered in carvings, food and vomit stains, and its charming lack of respect for fire code violations. 

People of all types come here, miners, ore laborers, slave traders, slaves, merchants, bandits, detectives looking for information, rebels, spies, informants. 

Usually a very rough crowd, but with the odd white collar Apex official sprinkled in now and again. 

It's been a bit of a rough night, with two drunken brawls in the parking lot, a fight involving two women tearing at each other's hair and throwing drinks on one another, a patron who'd turned out to be a mid level IMC bureaucrat trying to get involved with a prostitute and being caught by a detective, and a rather unruly, mentally ill young man who'd insisted he was the owner and sole fundraiser of the Apex Games and he was in need of some pocket change to get off of the planet, and if they'd just lend him some money, he'd pay them back handsomely. 

The bartender has been serving the rough crowd all day.

Which is why he's a little shocked, and maybe a little gratified, to hear someone very politely, say, "Excuse me, sir?" 

He turns, surprisingly able to hear a soft, measured voice underneath the barrage of loud, barbaric voices his ears had become accustomed to. 

A distinguished older woman sits at the far corner of the bar. Her skin is dark and handsome, her cheek bones high, and chin well-defined. 

She had a confident glint in her eye, a steely disposition that he could see in her straight back and proud gaze, which survey the bar carefully, taking in its "luxurious" interior. 

"When it is possible, I would like a drink. Bourbon on the rocks, please."

Normally, he'd tell her he was busy and he'd get to her when he gets to her.

But beautiful women always get him on his best behavior, even if they are a little older. 

Besides, something about her warns him not to get on her bad side.

He pours her a drink.

"I ain't see you 'round these parts before," he says. "And I know I'd 'member a face like yours." 

"Charming," she says easily. "I'm new to the area."

"That so? That's mighty fine. You here to watch the game?"

Immediately he thinks surely not. 

The Apex Games were not for the faint heart, and a woman like this surely wouldn't be- 

"Of course. Why else would I be in a bar this filthy?" she says without a hint of embarrassment. "Every other Apex related bar is far out of my price range."

"Really? With a mouth like that, I'd've thought you were a rich lady. Some IMC corporate man's lovely wife," he chuckles. 

"As if I'd ever associate with scum like that," she says with a smile.

They laugh because they both know that this kind of talk would be unthinkable anywhere but the Frontier, where the IMC was spread out much further, its control greatly diminished. In fact, talking well of the IMC was probably more dangerous, especially in dives like these, where milita rebels may lurk. 

"What about the Apex Games attract ya? Not to sound biased or nothing, but I did't think most women were interested in blood sports like that."

"I'm not, normally," she says. "But this one is special." 

"Ah? You got money on a winner?" he asks.

"No. Not quite," she says with a little laugh. "But I am invested." 

"You just arrive?"

"Yes, I unfortunately did not hear about the Games or their contestants this year until late. I know I've missed the first day, but I was hoping that the contestant I'm looking for would at least survive 'till the second day."

"Oh, so you're rootin' for a particular person? That's sweet. Husband? Brother?" 

"My kid, actually. I don't suppose you could tell me if he's still alive?" 

"Well everyone has a code name," the bartender says. "But they do release a roster of the teams with surnames, if that would help?" 

"It would, thank you."

"What's your name? I might be able to tell you off hand if your kid is still alive. Some of them really stand out, you know. He an old timer? Rookie? Wet around the ears, or done it a few times?"

"It's his first game ever," she says, her voice dropping in energy level just for a bit. "And as for my name, well, it's Sophia. Sophia Witt." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: 
> 
> -IT'S SHERBET, NOT SHERBERT? WHAT THE FUCK
> 
> \- and also: wow, Sophia? That's a nice name, huh. A nice name for a nice...lady. Hmmmmmmmmm. 
> 
> \- I really had to resist the urge to reveal more backstories and things here, because I'm dying to reveal Bloodhound's, but at the same time, I'm trying to pace myself here. Writing flashbacks and hallucinations is seriously fun, but they both need context for maximum effect, so I'm exhibiting some self control, lmao. Anyway. sorry for the shorter update, but thanks for reading this far. We move onwards. I promise next chapter will be more exciting. Caustic does a no-no.


	19. In the End, One's Life is Measured by Those We've Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stepped on my glasses and now the frames are slightly out of sync and the difference in weight on my face is driving me mildly insane, which is probably why there is more suffering than usual in this chapter. 
> 
> You can blame my glasses or god, who is clearly punishing me. 
> 
> GAH, it's just a slight difference in weight but it's actually fucking annoying. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for still hanging around.

"Wow...you sure this place ain't Bridges?" 

Bloodhound is on one knee, inspecting the dirt, raven friend on their shoulder, also looking down.

"No one's been here for at least an hour or two," Bloodhound murmurs to Caustic. "Tracks indicate they were carrying something heavier than usual." 

"A fallen team mate?" Caustic suggests.

"Possibly." 

"They might have been downed." 

"I will send Muninn." 

"It looks just like Bridges, right?"

"Yes, Mirage," Bloodhound sighs. "This river is the same river that passes through Bridges. If you followed it south, you'd come across the same place we already passed through."

Mirage grins, kicking at the water he's standing in. 

"Feels nice to clean some of the shit off my shoes!" 

He runs his fingers through the water, splashing some of it in his face and hair.

"Ah, man, this feels great. I can finally refill my canteen." 

Caustic has already turned away.

Bloodhound raises their arm and Muninn takes off with a caw.

As predicted, the ring had closed around half of Bunker. They had luckily been far enough away to safely watch it approach, stopping some meters away from them. Mirage still watches it warily, not wanting to be anywhere close to that thing ever again. He reaches down into the river below and picks up a rock. 

He hurls it with all his might into the ring.

It passes through no problem, as though the wall of orange energy doesn't even exist.

"Why does this thing only affect us?" Mirage asks. 

"It affects all living matter, it is simply programmed to degrade _human_ cells," Bloodhound replies. "It is derived from weaponry designed for mass genocide, but on a lower degradation scale."

Mirage swallows. "Yikes." 

Bloodhound looks up quickly as Muninn swoops down from the sky, landing neatly on the hunter's now outstretched arm.

"Muninn has found corpses," they say quickly to Caustic, whose eyes widen with excitement.

Mirage keeps his distance as they follow the raven to another small cluster of buildings on the water, which are similar to Bridges, but are slightly more spread out, with an enormous watchtower of sorts overlooking the town. 

But he finds himself not caring to look at the buildings, which are essentially the same as Bridges' buildings, set on rickety stilts with ramps, but at the bodies.

For Bloodhound's raven, Muninn they had called it, had certainly found corpses.

A lot of them.

At least a dozen men and women lie in the water. Some are face down, their bodies obviously looted, missing backpacks, but others are leaned up against the walls of the canyon, against rocks, their heads lolling against wooden ramps in some cases. 

Flies swarm the area, black clouds as thick as smoke. 

Caustic kneels down and begins searching the bodies, quite unbothered by the insects. 

Bloodhound helps, Muninn fluttering down to nibble at the eyes of the first person they search. They don't seem particularly fazed by how the air reeks of death either. 

Mirage, feeling a little grossed out, watches dumbly for a moment. 

Some of them are newly dead, their bodies still leaking with blood, flies flitting across their foreheads and lips, crawling into their open mouths and open wounds. 

Others have been dead for much longer, their bodies bloated and purple, fluid leaking out of their noses and mouths. Maggots wriggle in its wake, feeding off of the dead tissue. 

At the sight of them, Mirage feels bile rising in his throat.

He turns away, disgusted. 

He's never had to watch the bodies decompose. Never had to clean up after his own mess. 

He feels Bloodhound's hand on his shoulder.

He tenses, expecting them to ask him to help, and bracing himself for the request.

"You are uncomfortable," Bloodhound says. 

Mirage lets out a chuckle.

"A tad bit. We weren't normally assigned to clean up duty. That kind of stuff was for the maids. Absolutely revolting..."

"It is nature's way of recycling and reusing once living organic matter. Their bodies provide nutrients for the flies and beetles that consume and lay eggs in their flesh, and those insects are the important nutrients of other creatures. Although not in this case, I suppose," Bloodhound reasons. Muninn, as if to protest, snaps a fly out of the air with their beak. "Besides, I believe it would be much worse if human bodies didn't naturally decay after death. They would really begin to stack up after a while."

Mirage laughs in spite of himself. 

He's not sure if Bloodhound is simply making a statement, or trying to make him feel just a tad better, but he appreciates it nonetheless. 

Caustic comes back with two purple body shields and one blue. 

He tosses the blue to Mirage, but Bloodhound catches it, giving him a "look" that somehow pierces the mask.

Caustic sighs, but relents and gives one of the purple body shields to Mirage. 

"Thanks," he says to Bloodhound, totally ignoring the person who'd found it in the first place. 

"We should head to Watchtower," Caustic says. "Stay up there for some time, keep an eye on the ring, and pick off stragglers." 

Bloodhound nods.

"We have used this strategy before," they add for Mirage's benefit. 

"Sounds great. Race you to the top!" 

He charges passed the two of them, upsetting Muninn, who flaps his wings in alarm as the man brushes against Bloodhound ever so slightly.

Caustic and Bloodhound exchange looks before slowly turning and following their team mate. 

This time, he connects his jump kit to the rope dangling from the top of Watchtower. 

It works like a breeze, immediately hauling him smoothly and rapidly upwards. 

Too bad it's a little too fast, and his kit throws him up a little too high. 

He is sent flying over the wrong railing and into a steel column.

He lands on his back, cursing and rocking slowly as pain slams through his spine like a freight ship.

"Is someone up there?" Bloodhound calls out with some alarm, having heard his yell of pain.

"Y-yeah, they shot at me, but don't worry, they're running away now!" Mirage yells back, scrambling back to his feet, rubbing his back. "And don't go looking for them either, they're long gone, nothing to worry about. And me, I'm fine too." 

Bloodhound tilts their head at him inquisitively when they get to the top, but doesn't say a word as Caustic zooms up the rope behind them, easily controlling his own kit and landing perfectly on both feet. 

Mirage walks towards twin red doors, interested in seeing what the inside of Watchtower looks like.

Caustic, to his surprise, actually follows him, while Bloodhound walks up the stairs to get a look at the surrounding area. 

The gas expert moves to the left side of Watchtower's enclosed room to inspect a small storage closet while Mirage heads to the right, heading for the door, wanting to go into the next room and look out the glass wall.

But instead, he sees a flicker of movement.

And the glass in front of him shatters as bullets whiz through it.

"Fuck!" 

He dives to the ground, but still feels something nick the side of his neck. 

He lets out a grunt of pain, crawling through a floor covered in broken glass, can hear Caustic yelling something out in alarm. 

He whips out his wingman just in time as a young woman bursts through the open door now to his left. 

He shoots her in the knee cap. 

She falls against the wall with a yelp, blooding pouring from her leg. 

But her teammates follow her, with Hemloks and Flatlines in their hands.

Thinking fast, rather than throw out a decoy, Mirage overloads his emitters with light, throwing out a beam that blinds everyone in the room. 

The woman's two male companions shut their eyes in a panic. 

Rather than shoot at them, Mirage makes a beeline for the door, but rather foolishly, even though they are momentarily blinded, the two men shoot into the air.

Mirage feels a bullet biting into his back, throwing him onto the ground. 

On all fours, he crawls over to the closet Caustic is currently ducked in. 

Caustic charges out, stepping over Mirage, one of his gas traps in hand. 

With the other hand, he shoots high powered energy bursts at their enemies. 

But they bounce off their shields.

And now the two men, and the woman, who clings to the wall, but is still standing, still with a gun in her hand, turn towards Caustic. 

Caustic stiffens and Mirage wonders if he's about to die right in front of him, at the hands of a three man firing squad.

But then the man tosses down his trap. 

And it begins to hiss green smoke everywhere, filling the room with noxious clouds almost instantly. 

A few stray bullets catch Caustic in the stomach, penetrating his lab coat. Mirage sees him bending over, clutching his stomach. But then he straightens, although it must be painful, and begins to stagger towards the exit. 

Meanwhile, (although he can only see their outlines) he can tell that the enemy team is breathing Caustic's gas in, gasping and choking on the poison. 

Mirage crawls over to the door, the bullet in his back preventing him from moving too fast. 

One of the men from the enemy squad hurries over him, reaching for the double doors. 

But Caustic jams them shut, leaning two more gas traps over the doors from the outside, his eyes bright, filled with sadistic glee. 

"Wait! Caustic!" Mirage shouts, coughing on gas. "What the fuck, I'm still in here!" 

But Caustic isn't looking at him, is only staring at the enemy squad as they begin to writhe, clutching their throats, screaming and breathing in the chemicals even quicker. 

"Caustic, you son of a bitch!" 

But he can't get any more words out. 

His cheek rubs against cool metal as his head drops to the floor. 

That. Stinking. Garbage. Man. 

Darkness clouds his vision and he begins hacking and coughing, his lungs on fire. 

* * *

"What happened?" Bloodhound asks immediately. "How hurt are you?"

Caustic falls to the ground, blood dripping from the front of his lab coat. 

"Med kit."

Bloodhound hands a syringe to him. 

He takes it, nodding gratefully, and plunges it into his wrist. 

He lets out a sigh as his wounds begin to heal. 

"There was a squad down below. They have been dealt with."

"You killed them all?"

"Not quite," Caustic grunts. "They're dying now, as we speak. I would've preferred to stay and watch, but as I have no med kits..." 

"Where is Mirage? Healing his wounds?" Bloodhound asks. 

Caustic leans back with a groan, feeling the nasty after effects of the syringe beginning to burn through his muscles. 

"He's in the room with them."

"What? Why?" Bloodhound demands. 

"Just bad luck on his part. They would've gotten out if I hadn't closed the doors when I did." 

"Caustic, you've doomed your own team mate!"

Bloodhound rushes to their feet and sprints over a railing to get to the lower level. 

"He was an acceptable loss!" Caustic shouts over their shoulders. "Don't go in there!"

But Bloodhound ignores him. 

They see Caustic's traps wedged between the doors, see the smoke-filled room. 

They kick at the doors trapping Mirage inside. The glass cracks under the hunter's powerful blow, the metal denting, and then the hinges snap off completely as Bloodhound hits them again. The traps, still spewing some gas, deflate completely as the doors breaking tears through their plastic skins. 

Bloodhound activates eye of the Allfather as they enter the room, full to the brim with toxic chemicals. 

Two people, a man and a woman, lie on the ground dead. 

A third is on his knees, still dying.

And Elliott is...beside them, near the door, his back bleeding. 

They crouch quickly, grabbing the injured man, and hauling him into their arms bridal style.  

They charge back through the broken doors, stumbling just a little on Caustic's now deflated and broken traps. 

Outside, they lay him down on the ground. 

He's breathing, but in a pained way, in short, panicked bursts, his body wracked with seizure-like spasms. 

Bloodhound jabs his neck with a syringe. 

"Come on, Mirage, come on, stay with me," they murmur. "Stay awake. Can you hear me?"

Mirage only twitches, eyes not seeing anything.

They slap his cheeks a little with their gloved hands. 

"Come on. Breathe. Breathe in the fresh air, exhale deeply."

Bloodhound shakes him gently, but firmly. 

"Elliott. Exhale."

As his senses return to him, as Bloodhound's mask begins to slide back into view, and he gets more precious, gorgeous fresh air into his lungs, he begins to breathe a little easier.

"B-Blood-h-hound." 

The masked hunter can barely hear his pained whisper.

They look down and see that his eyes are more focused now, looking up at the sky and at them. 

"Ca-caustic...dutch...ovened...me...that...sick...sonuva..." 

"Easy," Bloodhound says soothingly. Their cool gloved fingers gently brush against Mirage's burning right cheek, filling him with a sense of calm despite his situation. "Breathe now. Curse Caustic later."

Mirage, head still jerking, muscles still twitching, nods slightly. 

Then he lies his head back, feeling Bloodhound's fingers still holding onto him, feels their thumb still on his cheek, rubbing the skin back and forth rhythmically, their mask over head, still hovering near him concernedly. 

He lies back, staring at the sky, and at Bloodhound, and does his best to breathe. 

* * *

The world slides in and out of color like a sickening kaleidoscope of blue sky, grey Watchtower, and reddened vision. 

His head is spinning even though he's lying still.

Images and bits of sound assault his senses as people pass over him, arguing.

"You could've killed him-"

"I got three- and they had two purple helmets and a golden wingman and two phoenix kits-" 

"I don't care, you risked a team mate to get kills-"

He wishes that they'd shut up, whoever they are.

Dark wings flutter over his face. 

A hard beak plucks at his eyebrows. 

"Ah!" he shrieks. "Demon!" 

Then he closes his eyes, and everything goes dark. 

Some time later, he has no idea how much later, his ears feel full of goo, as does his brain. 

He doesn't open his eyes, but the fluid inside his head feels as thick as molasses. 

His hand twitches, not obeying his commands. His legs and arms disobey his orders as well, remaining limp despite his best efforts to move them. 

Only his head moves when he wills it to, and it only snaps to the left, eliciting a groan of pain from him as it does. 

He manages to open his eyes a crack. 

And he sees Bloodhound sitting beside him, their back against the wall, hat bowed, head down, clearly asleep, but with their gaze pointed towards him. 

His eyelids close on him. 

And he sinks back into an uneasy sleep. 

The next time he wakes up, he's covered in fire ants, being eaten alive.

He yelps, able to move this time, thrashing all over the floor, shoulders knocking painfully into something hard. 

"Elliott-" 

He doesn't register his name being called, only shrieking as he must be on fire, must've been covered in gasoline and set onto a funeral pyre.

"i'm still alive!" he yells. "Stop it!"

"Elliott, please-"

He feels firm hands pressing down on his chest, pinning him to the floor, but he slaps at them, kicks at the person who's trying to grab him, who's trying to light him on fire and burn his corpse, sparing it the indignity of maggots, but condemning him to an untimely death. 

"Get off me!" 

His whole body feels hot, his armpits sweaty, his shirt soaked with sweat, clinging to his chest uncomfortably, his crotch embarrassingly wet. 

But the mysterious person is stronger than him.

They force him still, leaning down on him with part of their weight.

He kicks and struggles, but despite his best efforts, he can't budge the immense pressure off of him.

In the end, he tires himself out, and the fire begins to fade as he slips into unconsciousness once more. 

* * *

 The next time he wakes, Elliott is more lucid, more alert.

Still weak, his lungs still aching as he breathes, his limbs sore and trembling just a little as he moves them slowly, almost imperceptibly, but much more awake. 

He coughs a little. 

"Subject is awake." 

His head snaps towards the direction of the voice he'd heard.

Caustic is standing near him, peering down at him analytically. 

"Geh...away from m...me...you...piece...of...horse...ass," he grunts out. 

"Not quite lucid, as judged by slurred words and incoherent babbling," Caustic murmurs. "But staying within acceptable and expected parameters of recovery." 

"I'm....finna...kill..." 

"I'll get the hound," Caustic interrupts him curtly. "I think they're probably better for your health than me."

He strides away, leaving Elliott struggling to sit up. 

He doesn't return, but Bloodhound does, walking through a single door and hurriedly crouching to speak with him. 

"How are you feeling?"

_Like a fat ugly psychopath locked me in a room full of 50 years of stored vaping._

But Elliott can't force that out of his mouth. 

Instead he just croaks out: "Like death." 

"You almost died," Bloodhound says. "But Caustic saved you. He had vials of his own antidote on him, which were for him in case his mask broke, but-"

"No..." Elliott gasps. "Didn't...save...me...can't save person...you almost...killed." 

Bloodhound, seeing what Elliott is trying to do, helps him sit up and lean against the nearest wall. They are in a very small room, with no windows, which is covered in shelving units and seems to be some kind of storage space. 

"Feel...like...shit." 

"I would be surprised if you didn't."

"R...ring?"

"Closing soon, but I will carry you, if need be."

"F....fff...."

"Just rest, Elliott, don't speak if it's hard."

But he wants to, even though it's hard, even though it feels as though his jaw is locked in place, his mouth sewn shut, only painfully opening when he rips through the stitches and forces words out. 

"Y....you...came..."

"I did. My mask protects me from the gas. I came as quickly as I could, I am...sorry..."

"D-don't...be...I'm...still...here..."

Bloodhound's hand is still on his back.

They are still bent over him, watching him carefully. 

The other hand is warm on his chest, their fingers firm and comforting over his swiftly beating heart. 

"H-Hound..."

"Do you need water? Rations? Hold up your fingers if you can, 1 for water, 2 for rations, 3 for me to leave you be."

He shakes his head vehemently.

"S...stay." 

Bloodhound lets go of him. 

And he groans, wishing they hadn't. 

Their hands are the only things he wants to focus on right now, anything besides the unbearable trembling of his burning muscles, his screaming lungs. 

"Can...can I...squeeze...your hand...?" he forces out, biting his tongue a little and tasting blood. Inwardly, he curses himself.

Bloodhound recoils a little.

"Why?" they ask cautiously, maybe even a little defensively. 

"Just...want...to stop...the fuck...ing...shaking," Elliott spits out. 

They don't respond for a minute or so, staring at him inscrutably, as though considering it. 

Then they seem to make up their mind, sitting beside him and slowly extending their hand. 

He takes it immediately, his fingers squeezing down as hard as they can on Bloodhound's.

But they do not protest, even though it must hurt, only allowing Elliott to crush them in his grip, his hand shaking violently. 

"Th...thank...you..."

Bloodhound nods. 

Their hand feels steady and warm in his, secure and unmoving in a way that helps him feel less panicked, more lucid.

And he can focus on the muscles in his hand, squeezing Bloodhound's, rather than the unbearable pulsating in his chest. 

"F...for...getting...me." 

"You are my team mate. I do not leave anyone behind," Bloodhound says simply. 

"I do," Elliott says with a slightly hysterical laugh. It bubbles up inside his chest, spilling out his mouth uncontrollably. "I...leave...everyone behind." 

"Not now, Elliott," Bloodhound says gently. Their mask wavers before his gaze, the eyes threatening to turn into Warren's. 

"D...deserved it. I sho-shouldn't be alive," Elliott says through gritted, trembling teeth. "Sh...should be...dead...would've...been better...for...everyone..." 

"That is not for me to say," Bloodhound murmurs. The muscles of their hand twitch in his. "Only the gods know who deserves to live and die, when and how." 

"N...no...I...I killed...Liam," Elliott says. His vision flickers. The lights double, then quadruple. He feels the urge to vomit rising within him, the bile leaving a sick hot trail of fire in his throat. 

"You've killed many people," Bloodhound says. "It is what people like us do-" 

"N-no, no, you don't...kill...your own...family. I did. That...was...me. I killed him. Liam. My oldest brother."

As his breathing eases, Elliott finds it easier to speak.

But as his vision begins to redden, threatening to blacken, he feels his mouth moving faster, babbling almost incoherently. 

"Would you have let me d-die? If you knew? I-I wouldn't blame you. I don't think anyone would. Sc-scum bags who kill...their own family are the worst kind, right, worse than normal murder-murdererssss, amirite? Killed Liam. My oldest brother. My other brothers hate m-me. Mom...would kill me if she could."

He laughs, his breathing coming out in short hot bursts. 

"Y-you may be...a vish...vicious murderer...but you wouldn't kill family! I would! I would, for money! For the right price!"

"Elliott, you don't want to tell me this. We are strangers," Bloodhound says calmly. They begin to pull their hand from Elliott's, but he holds on determinedly, forcing them to stay close to him. 

"N...nothing...like the judgment of strangers! They made me do it! They made me, the-the Predators! A-and you know what I did, af-after they...made me do it? You know what I did?"

Bloodhound's knuckles crack under the strain of Elliott's grip. 

He lets go of their hand abruptly, his own hand now gripping at his hair, squeezing and pulling from the roots. 

"I...I stayed with them anyway. I stayed. I stayed, I stayed, I stayed. I fucking left my family behind, and found a new one. And I stayed with them, the people who killed Liam, until...til...Castor...and then that family died too. I...I'm a serial...family...murderer."

He giggles uncontrollably at the sound of that, his lungs burning, his throat heaving.

And then, all of a sudden he has the energy to launch himself onto his feet. 

Bloodhound hastily grabs his hair as he begins to violently throw up orange and red vomit all over the floor. 

When it's all over, he remains hunched over, breathing deeply, Bloodhound's fingers on his forehead. They feel so good, so secure, so firm, squeezing ever so slightly, putting a pleasurable weight on his tired skin, that he almost leans into them for a moment.

But then he realizes what he's doing and thrusts his head away from their hands. 

They let him stumble away, out the door and back outside.

The sunlight burns his eyes, so he closes them.

Lets himself sit down, or rather, fall down. 

Feels Bloodhound hovering somewhere behind him. 

"There's my deep dark secret, Hound," he rasps. "I never hated my family. I hated myself. I hate myself. I wish I could just kill myself and rid the universe of me. That's why I'm here. Here in the Apex Games, where all the other scum bag murderers come to die. Really gets rid of all the filth, doesn't it? Almost perfectly designed that way."

The world is tilting sickeningly overhead. 

He falls back, but instead of splitting his head out onto the concrete, he feels Bloodhound catch him, lowering him gently onto his back. 

"D....do me a favor," he says, eyes closing, exhaustion beginning to slow down his voice, shut down his thought processes, one by one, like lights flickering off in a building. "Next time, don't save me. This fucking sucks." 

The last light flickers off. 

And the last thing he registers before it all goes completely dark is the sound of Bloodhound sighing his name, like a whisper on the wind. 

Guiltily, he clings to that sound, enjoying it for reasons he can't articulate in his current state. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you Caustic did a no-no. Anyway. 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> \- I have been dutch ovened. It is like dying a slow...miserable death, but you don't get to be dead at the end of it. you have to live with the haunting memories of being dutch ovened until the day you finally die and are released from them. 
> 
> \- I have also been gassed while stuck in a fucking room with enemies by my own Caustic team mate, so i relate to Mirage screaming what the fuck, I'm in here. No respect for the common people. His gas may not kill you, but fuck is it annoying, slow you down, and sometimes fuck you harder than the enemy team. 
> 
> \- I'm exhausted, so I'm not sure if this sucks. I'll look at it tomorrow and may feel nothing but deep regret, but that's for tomorrow. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, thank you for all the really awesome comments, and I'll see you later.


	20. The Path Lead Us Here Today, Embrace It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say, this is the first chapter I've written that actually made me a little emotional. 
> 
> Like that's ridiculous, I'm WRITING it for christ's sake, of all the narcissistic- 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is longer than any of my other chapters, and I'd like to think it packs a puuunch.

Caustic is on edge.

He had gotten about this antsy and hyper-focused, murmuring things to himself and constantly checking and re-checking his equipment, last year as well, Bloodhound recalls. Although he is a man with a powerful ego, Caustic still worries about the "unpredictable." He tries to keep track of every variable, calculate the odds of hypothetical scenarios. There's a quiet desperation about him as he paces from one end of the Artillery Underpass to the other. They had re located early, not wanting Mirage to be even close to the ring in his current state. Mirage would probably be displeased to find that Caustic had been the one to carry him here, as Bloodhound had wanted to walk ahead, scoping out all of the little nooks and crannies of the facility that leads to Artillery, where Caustic predicts the ring will close into this year.

Bloodhound assumes it is the scientist in Caustic that fears the inexplicable, the random chance.

He can't accept that there will always be variables outside of his control, and fate rarely comes in the form one most expects it.

He's sitting off on his own, notepad in hand, writing furiously.

Bloodhound sits with Mirage behind a box of crates.

Mirage had woken up more or less lucid a few times, but he hasn't said anything, just staring vacantly off into the distance, looking blankly at nothing.

Bloodhound blinks behind their mask as Mirage stirs slightly, as though he can hear their thoughts.

They had been watching him for hours now, trying to make sure he wouldn't choke on his own vomit or start convulsing again.

They have had injured team mates before, but never ones like Mirage.

Bloodhound thinks about what he'd said, how he'd killed his own brother, Liam.

They wonder how a person could ever do that to their own flesh and blood.

But then, they think, eyes drifting off into space, lost in memories, there are many things that they never thought _they_ would do.

_They plunge the knife into the loathsome man's chest over and over again, taking out their rage, their howling, ravenous sorrow out on his body, carving their pain into his flesh. He is long dead, but their appetite for his blood isn't._

_The wretched monotonous grey of the IMC military uniform fills their heart with hatred._

_They paint the uniform red instead, and even though something within them recoils, feeling sick to the bone, another part of them races forward eagerly, fangs dripping, eager to sink into the tender meat._

_They are inconsolable, a wild animal._

_Surrounded by fallen predators, now nothing more than their prey._

_They carve out the man's stomach, dig out his heart, and pulverize it into a greasy red mess on the floor._

_What would Father think? Mother? Alda?_

_They do not know._

_All they know is that Atli, if they had somehow managed to survive underneath a layer of callousness and cold pragmatism after all these years, is now gone forever._

"Bloodhound."

The hunter looks down.

Elliott's eyes are open.

They do not look at them, preferring to stare at the ceiling instead.

He seems tired, but much more like his real self than last time. 

"Where are we?"

"Artillery Underpass."

"Safe from the ring?"

"Yes."

"Am I...ok now?"

"You tell me."

He thinks about it.

"I feel a little tired, but I'm alright."

He closes his eyes.

"...I don't suppose...you want to tell me what embarrassing things I said and did while in a fevered state?"

"You told me you killed your brother Liam," Bloodhound says.

Elliott's jaw tenses.

"Did I?" he says, trying to sound nonchalant, but there's an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. "That's odd."

"Did you really kill him?" Bloodhound asks solemnly. They stare seriously at Mirage, blank masked eyes imperious and impartial.

The man's eyes remain close, but he shakes his head with a small grimace on his face.

"...Damn Caustic truth gas. Guess I was that delirious. Well. Cat's out of the bad, huh? I did. I did kill my brother, Liam," the man admits. He says it so softly, without the swagger or confidence that Bloodhound is accustomed to hearing in his voice. "I killed him because he was a dissident leader of the Frontier Militia on Tristan. Back before the rebels were purged and neutralized. He was...the first of many. I didn't want to shoot him. I tried to make him see reason. Tried to get him to come with me and escape. But he refused. He wouldn't abandon his rebel friends. And when the time came, I was the Apex Predator they assigned to publicly execute him. I was supposed to shoot him in the head. I couldn't. And my CO, he grabbed the gun, and I panicked. And the gun went off. And I killed him.”

His mouth is trembling as he speaks, despite his overt efforts to control himself.

As if he hadn’t admitted such a thing to anyone in a long time.

Bloodhound looks away from him.

“You’d never do that to your family, would you?” Elliott asks. “You’d rather die  beside them.”

The masked hunter doesn’t say anything, but Elliott knows their answer.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“We are different people, Elliott.”

“Yeah. I’ll say. You may be bloodthirsty, but you’re loyal. You follow a code of conduct. I’m just a wild dog, foaming at the mouth. My brother, Warren, decked me when I came home. The guy has never been violent, never hit anyone in his life, probably. I've never seen him so angry. My brother, Talos, he's the one with a temper. But I've never seen him look so...broken. He’s probably dead now. Went MIA, joined the same cause as Liam. Probably just to spite me. And my mother...I don’t know. I couldn’t face her for a long time after the incident with Warren. But when I came home again after about a year, determined to apologize or beg for forgiveness or something, the house was half burnt down. The IMC came after her because of her connection to my brothers, thinking she was involved. I haven’t seen her, heard from her, nothing. When I went through IMC dissident records, her name was scratched out. I don't know if she's alive or dead. Either way, she probably hates me.”

He sits up with a groan, clutching his stomach. 

“These are some maximum level cramps,” he complains. “Is this what women go through every month? A barrel full of Caustic juice rolling around in your stomach?”

Bloodhound hands him a canteen wordlessly.

He takes it and gulps it down.

After he’s done, he stares at the bottle in his clenched hand as though he’s never seen such a thing before in his life.

“Don’t know where any of them are," Elliott says hoarsely after a moment. "Even if I did, they wouldn’t speak to me. They’ll never forgive me.”

“Then they will have lost two brothers that day,” Bloodhound says firmly.

Elliott looks up, surprised.

“They are your family. They may never forgive you, but they must have closure. They must know exactly what happened, what your side of the story is. Even if they do not understand, or cannot forgive, families need closure. They are the people who’re supposed to be on your side, always. If ever a time comes when even _they_ must abandon you, then more than ever, they need to know exactly what happened." 

Elliott doesn’t answer for some time.

Bloodhound, sharpening their knife, is quite content to sit in silence for a while, even the rest of the game should Elliott desire it.

But then, the holographic trickster speaks again.

“I’m ashamed of myself. I don’t know if I want them to forgive me, or if I want to forgive myself. I’m...I’m so capable of killing. Of torturing people. Dangling their lives before their eyes. If I just...forgive myself, I don’t know if I’ll end up being just like Lutherian or Collier or any one of them. I don’t know if I would become...the kind of person who kills their own brother without a second thought or a trace of guilt. Is that stupid? I mean for christ’s sake, this is an Apex Game, that’s the kind of person I should be, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Bloodhound answers humbly. “All I know is that Liam’s death sounded like an accident. A poor situation. Bad fortune, two opposing personalities, and a tragic accident that was nonetheless going to happen anyway, whether it was by your hand or not.”

Elliott looks as though he’s been slapped in the face.

“What makes you think he would’ve been caught and killed by someone other than me?”

“I am not the type to be obsessed with hypotheticals,” Bloodhound says firmly, involuntarily glancing at Caustic as they do. “But Frontier Militia rebels know that they may be caught and killed at any time. Your brother knew the risks he was taking. It was only...fate that he should be caught by you. You offered him an escape. He refused. You didn’t want to pull the trigger. You were forced to, by your CO and by your own situation. You were both trapped in a situation that you could not maneuver out of.”

“And you’re going to say it was the will of the Allfather?” Mirage asks, sounding vaguely annoyed, possibly even angry.

“No,” Bloodhound says simply. “Only that you cannot change what happened, and all you can do is attempt to understand it. All you can do is choose what kind of person your experiences will make you. Whether you believe in fate or just bad luck, freedom of choice or the will of a higher power, you must live with your mistakes. Liam died for his own mistakes. Or perhaps they weren’t even his own mistakes, but simply his decisions, no right or wrong involved in them. He chose his people, and in doing so, he chose death. Perhaps it is difficult to hear, but your torment will only end when  you accept this fact." 

Mirage deflates, no longer angry but defeated.

“He always was an idiot,” Mirage grumbles.

He is silent for some time, only occasionally flexing his fingers, tapping his foot, gradually stretching his limbs to relieve some of the ache.

“Bloodhound?” he asks finally.

“Yes?”

“Your family...they all died.”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever….wonder what could’ve happened? If you’d done something differently?”

Bloodhound is very quiet, so quiet that Mirage thinks they aren’t going to answer him at all. He settles on his side, figuring that their conversation was over. But to his shock, Bloodhound does begin to speak.

“His name was Armann.”

_Bloodhound surveys their people with weary eyes._

_They have just turned eighteen, an age that would have been greeted with much celebration had they been anywhere else._

_But today, they are more concerned with getting their twenty remaining clan mates through the night alive._

_Over the years, they had lost many people, both young and old, to the wild grimmur and_ _rándýr. They had lost many more to illness, to weakness, fatigue, exposure. Some had fallen through ice to be swept away and never seen again._

_It was only in recent years that some chose to leave with the IMC._

_Of course, the IMC had come earlier than that._

_Asking them if they were finally ready to accept IMC “freedom” and be relocated, renamed, and rebranded into a whole other person in exchange for a small stipend and honest, reliable work._

_Their people had spat at their shoes and their offer._

_But as time goes on, as the winters grow harsher, and their numbers dwindle, a few are tempted._

_And then, two years ago, for the first time, two men, both older and more tired, agree to go with the IMC._

_Bloodhound does not regard them poorly._

_They understand._

_But at the same time, they will never submit in such a way. They will never bow to the IMC’s demands, nor will they accept a fine strip of meat in exchange for a collar._

_“Bloodhound! Bloodhound! You have to see this!”_

_Armann comes charging at his old friend, hair long and wild. He is much taller than Bloodhound now, a solid 4 inches, and he’s stronger now, less likely to panic and cry in a crisis. He’s broader, more muscular too, looking more and more like his deceased father every day._

_“What is it, Armann?”_

_They follow him through the frozen woods._

_And freeze, eyes wide in surprise, at the sight of two of their patrol members lying in the snow, their throats slit._

_“They were here,” Armann hisses, pointing at the bloody boot prints leading away from the bodies. “The IMC is here to finish off those who refuse to work for them.”_

_Bloodhound stares solemnly at the bodies of the two guards, two people he’d remembered bathing beside in the hot springs back on their home world, rambunctious and mischievous, always hiding their clothes before they got out, but well-meaning and kind-hearted for the most part._

_They kneel beside their friends and close their eyes, uttering a quick prayer asking for easy passage into the afterlife for them._

_Then they stand._

_“We are being hunted,” Bloodhound says._

_Armann nods. He has matured a great deal in five years, no longer thinking with his emotions first, but his head._

_“But we are hunters as well, lest they forget.”_

_Armann grins at their words._

_“That’s what I wanted to hear.”_

It’s been a long time since they’ve thought directly of Armann.

Of his dark skin, thick hair, messy smile. Beautiful freckled face, with a wide generous nose, a well structured chin that always jut out so smugly whenever he thought he had won an argument.

Bloodhound feels a ping of sadness stirring in their long quieted heart.

“He was my friend. Someone I had known on my home world, before my people were rounded up and left to die.”

_The Apex Predators._

_That's what they called themselves._

_A band of ruthless mercenaries._

_They killed with efficiency, shooting through the center of skulls, snapping necks, slitting throats. Skilled in hand to hand combat, proficient with weapons from short range to sniper, they are also skillful_ _trackers, following Bloodhound’s clan relentlessly for days._

_They pick off three more people before Bloodhound and Armann strike back._

_Bloodhound falls behind, allowing the group to move forward without them. Armann comes with them._

_They find the Apex Predators camp in a hollow surrounded by trees and snow-covered rocks, their tents camouflaged, but easily detected by Bloodhound's sharp eyes, which notice how the light reflects faintly off of the camouflaged fabric, bending around it and creating the impression of an unnatural shadow._

_Bloodhound had never thought themselves capable of murder. Of taking another human life and extinguishing it._

_But that was before they have to endure the sight of their dwindling clanmates' bodies._

_That was before they shot Kanar in the throat, before they slit Gareth’s throat and strung up his body in the woods between three trees, mockingly left on top of a hill near their camp, before they kidnapped Abel and Addison, forcing Abel to watch while they buried Addison alive._

_Abel left the next day, to be renamed and “freed.” He’d cried while telling Bloodhound, feeling as though it made him weak, but Bloodhound had simply hugged him, saying that if he must go, he must._

_After that, Bloodhound feels as though another barrier has been lifted. Something within them is changed irreversibly, as though the composition of their very body had shifted, their senses sharper, their heart slower, muscles leaner and almost alien, as though their hands are not their own, their mind having elevated itself above natural restrictions._

_As though the careful walls around their heart, keeping the wild things at bay, had begun to crumble._

_And when they lead their first attack against the Predators, with Armann by their side, they feel nothing other than a savage glee at the chance to torment them._

_It had been simple, really, almost too simple._

_Bloodhound and Armann had waited for days for their opportunity._

_They knew which target they wanted, and they had watched him together, calculating when would be the best time to down him._

_The leader whose name they don't know is a tracker himself. He goes out alone in the morning to refill his canteen at a small river near their encampment._

_He goes to his normal spot along the river._

_And sees a "young boy," Bloodhound, who being smaller and less muscular, less intimidating than Armann, would be less threatening._

_Bloodhound is no master pretender or liar, but it's easy enough to see the leader, widen their eyes, and turn tail and run as though terrified and startled._

_It's easy to run as though in a panic, strafing from side to side._

_And they can hear the leader in pursuit behind them, no doubt thinking that they were an innocent and helpless young clan member who'd just happened onto an enemy camp._

_"He'll take the bait," Bloodhound had murmured. "He has to. They can't risk their hideout being known."_

_And he had._

_He'd charged after the "panicked" Bloodhound._

_He no doubt thinks that Bloodhound is running in a random fashion, simply trying to escape._

_But they know this location very well by now._

_Bloodhound had burst through a clearing, just before a cliff._

_They turn with practiced ease, but make themselves look as though they'd stumbled, terrified of slipping off the cliff._

_The leader, his pistol out, approaches them._

_"Now there, boy," he says soothingly. "Don't be too hasty."_

_He walks another step forward._

_Bloodhound shouts, " N úna!"_

_And Armann leaps up from the thin layer of snow he'd been lying under in wait._

_He stabs the current leader of the Apex Predator squad in the armpit._

_Taking a pathway directly into his heart._

_And rather than feel scared or queasy or even guilty, Bloodhound simply stares at him. Watches him gasp, gurgling on blood, body convulsing._

_Armann covers his mouth, not letting him scream._

_He eases the man to the ground, blood leaking between his fingers, running down his wrist and dripping onto his elbow._

_Bloodhound's mind is utterly blank as they watch the man die._

_Although they are not particularly pleased to see him die, they are not sorrowful either._

_Do not experience regret, fear, or any form of disgust. Only determination._

_It had to be done._

_They know this._

_And the man had it coming._

_When Armann lets him go, he looks exhilarated._

_"It worked perfectly," he says, beaming at Bloodhound._

_Bloodhound cannot bring themselves to smile. They merely nod. "Well done."_

_Armann drags the man's body through the snow by the torso._

_He then pushes him off the ledge of the cliff._

_Letting him tumble into the fast moving river below._

"My people were rounded up outside of Valkana, where we had made our home long ago. We lived simply off of the land, hunting, gathering, telling stories, learning crafts, taking care of our old, sick, and young. We knew that our ancestors had come here long ago and settled the village, choosing not to partake in the industrialized society that was growing around us. They had been friends with the settlers of this planet a long time ago, and they had agreed to let our clan stay and live in peace. But the planet was expanding its industrial growth to its moons and nearby planetary system. It needed space for farming to sustain labor population growth. It chose our village." 

Mirage listens with rapt attention, perhaps needing the distraction from the pain. 

"The women and children were taken elsewhere. I later learned that women and female children were spread out in groups, sent to other planets to work as domestic servants, laborers, or comfort women. Male children were 'adopted' by doting pro-IMC foster families that would teach them the 'proper' way to adjust to interstellar human society. This proper way involved sending them to work in the mines, sent into tunnels or holes that adults couldn't crawl into. Some died in there. Others died from exposure to fumes or other workplace related injuries." 

Bloodhound's voice is steady as they speak, as always. 

But they touch the space where their heart is. 

"We were sent to Holthas to either die or recognize the error of our ways and join the IMC expansion plan willingly. Most of us died on the planet. Some were killed by the hunters they sent to pick off those they knew would never convert. There came a time when there were only eleven of us left. We all swore that we would never be converted, that we would die on this planet, and die honorably..."

_Dying honorably meant attacking the Apex Predators._

_It meant killing them off, one by one._

_Bloodhound perfects this method as though it were an art._

_They and Armann lure at least 4 of them away from the main group to be slaughtered somewhere far away from their camp, using Bloodhound's face, hardened and weathered, but still appearing much younger than they are, to their advantage._

_Once they steal their weapons from their corpses, their plan gets more elaborate._

_Two more of their clan mates join in on these excursions, armed with R-99's._

_Outright attacks become possible, the four of them using the trees to their advantage, hiding in them and diving from branch to branch the way they did as small children for fun, spraying bullets down on their heads._

_In as little as a month, the first squad of Apex Predators is completely wiped out, with only a single loss to their clan._

_And they drink to celebrate, dancing around a fire even though it's still too cold to do so, hollering and whooping and feeling exhilarated by their first real victory against their enemies in years._

_But they, young and foolish and impetuous, do not understand the longer term ramifications of their actions._

"I was the leader in all but name for my clan at that point. I lead the raids, I lead hunts, I brought back the most food, I tended to the sick. They asked me for advice, even though I was really still only a child. But at that point, our oldest members were gone. By that point, we were a group of angry young men, and myself, and we were desperate for victory. We needed it, even if it would only make things worse, eventually. And it did." 

_Now they send more ships._

_They send more Predators, with more soldiers to command._

_They have enough numbers to drop into the forests and onto the mountains to cover huge territories, forcing Bloodhound's group to move faster, cover more distance._

_They scare away the animals that the clan relies on for food, begin guarding the largest rivers, to  prevent them from bathing or fishing, and begin to inhabit all of the abandoned IMC facilities, preventing them from taking shelter in them during the worst of the snow storms._

_They are starving, injured from the constant running and constant exposure, and tense from the ever present fear of being found and killed._

_"You did this," Adar accuses Bloodhound one night._

_They are huddled within a cave, the fire burning low as the wind howls outside, occasionally blowing a draft in and forcing every person around it to shiver involuntarily._

_Bloodhound, wrapped in thick furs beside Armann, looks over to him._

_"If you hadn't attacked the Predators in the first place, they never would've sent this many people in response! Now we are doomed and it's all thanks to you!"_

_"Is that a joke?" Armann scoffs. "They were hunting us down, one by one, to slaughter us all before that, you fool. What should we have done? Died at one squad's hands instead of twenty? We were doomed before this began to happen, the only difference between now and then was that we'll at least give 'em a little trouble before we die!"_

_But Adar is incensed, standing up and lunging at Bloodhound._

_He seizes their coat and shakes them violently._

_"You sought vengeance without caring about the well being of our entire clan! You told us you would take care of us, but have lead us with your emotions to brutal ends! I  have had enough of it!"_

_Armann seizes his arm and shoves him away from his friend._

_"If you touch them again, I will toss your ass onto the fire and roast you for dinner," he says. "And then we'll all eat well for once."_

_Jomar and Owen snicker. The rest of their clan allow for brief smiles to cross their faces, but suppress them in fear of antagonizing Adar further._

_Adar glares at them._

_"I'm going to the IMC," he declares. "We cannot win. We must surrender."_

_"You lose either way," Armann says with a sneer. "Do you really think they'll take us now, after seeing everything we're capable of? They liked us when we were cute young boys that they could send into the mines, or into some corrupt official's bed. We're terrorists now.  Can't be reformed by 'normal' society anymore. We're just freaks, monsters, dangerous criminals now. You go to them and surrender and you will die, mark my words. Die like a man, Adar."_

_"Clutching my stomach in agony?" Adar snaps. "Or with a hole in my head?"_

_Armann shakes his head._

_"You're a coward. I know because I used to be a coward too. But I trust Bloodhound. And if we're going to die, it should be under their leadership. They made the right call. They fought for our people, they protected us, defended us, lead us into battle only when it was necessary, not out of revenge. You're out of line."_

_But Adar doesn't listen._

_"I'm going to the IMC. Anyone who doesn't feel like starving to death or partaking in some holy war against an unstoppable force is welcome to come with me."_

_"And good riddance," Armann murmurs._

_But he looks shocked, and angry, when three people do stand up to follow him outside._

_"I'm sorry,"  Gabriel says, putting his hand to Bloodhound's shoulder. "We did our best. We have honored the Allfather for the last time in this life."_

_"They will execute you," Bloodhound says._

_"Then it is our time," Gabriel says simply. "We cannot fight forever. Perhaps now is the time to die with dignity, Atli."_

_Bloodhound nods._

_"I disagree, but I respect your decision. You are no coward, Gabriel. May the gods follow you always."_

_"May your spirit never die, B_ _lóðhundar."_

_The other two following after Adar respectfully nod to Bloodhound._

_They thank them for everything they have done, and wish to see them again someday, in the afterlife._

_That leaves seven of them, who look around tiredly, but do not budge._

_"Thank you. All of you," Bloodhound says._

"Four of us left after they began sending more and more ships to the planet's surface to hunt us down. They surrendered to the IMC and were executed on other planets after being given faux 'trials' that ultimately only told the public that we were terrorists and thieves attempting to claim the planet for our own and rejecting all IMC aid despite their 'generous' relocation of our clan. The seven of us were left to continue fighting. But it got worse, day after day, week after week. Hiding from them at all when there were so many people looking for us was hard enough. We couldn't even dream of attacking them. A month and a half after the four left, there were only five of us left. Then, when it became two months, there were only three of us." 

_Jomar cries out in shock and pain when a remote detonated mine goes off under him, blowing off his right foot._

_Bloodhound immediately stops and begins to run back to get him._

_But Armann seizes them by the arm._

_"We can't!" he yells over the sound of explosives going off. "We can't, Bloodhound, he'll never make it! And we won't make it with him!"_

_But Bloodhound ignores him, struggling to break free from his grip._

_"Shut up! We can make it! We've made it this far, we can make it! Just let me go!" they shriek. They can't leave Jomar behind. He's screaming, blood gushing from his ankle and his side, his beautiful blond hair, just like his mother's, who'd been an expert potter, who'd sat beside their mother and taken lessons from her, soaked with mud. "We can't leave them, we never leave anyone!"_

_"We have to!"_

_Bloodhound suddenly feels the entire world turning sideways as Armann hauls them into his arms and begins to sprint away, leaving Jomar behind._

_"Stop it! Stop it, Andskotinn, stop it, Aumingi, Ég drep þig!"_

_They beat against his chest, struggle to get out of their grip._

_But he holds tight._

_He clutches Bloodhound to his body and ignores the punches, readjusts his grip as they twist and writhe, only winces a little when his captive kicks him somewhere sensitive._

_Bloodhound hasn't cried in years._

_There just hasn't  been time for it._

_But they do now._

_Because Jomar's screams echo across the great icy plains._

_They pierce through the sounds of explosions tearing the earth apart, mines being detonated, and gunfire, bearing down on the last two survivors of Bloodhound's family._

"They put up a shield just like this one," Bloodhound says, gesturing lightly to the outside. "We could not escape, they had us in a ring just like this one. There were only two of us left. Myself and Armann." 

Mirage, who's watching Bloodhound intently, almost afraid to look away, swallows nervously. "And...Armann. He was...a very close friend?" 

Bloodhound looks at him. 

Their cracked eyes peer soullessly down on him, in direct contrast with the humanity in Bloodhound's voice, the hurt and longing. 

"He was more than that." 

_A cave high, high up in the mountains is where they take refuge some hours later._

_Armann, having gathered some wood and flint, sets up a campfire while Bloodhound stares numbly into the vast dark blue sky, seeing the stars twinkling, but not understanding what they are looking at._

_Could there be gods out there? Watching them suffer without lifting a finger to help? Are they crying? Or laughing? Is their misery a cosmic joke, written by a sadistic deity, desiring nothing but for their creations to entertain them?_

_"What did we do to deserve this?" Bloodhound asks. "I don't understand why the gods have allowed this to happen."_

_Armann pauses, fingers rubbing a stick against a pile of branches, trying to get them to light._

_"They work in mysterious ways, I suppose."_

_But that is not satisfactory._

_Bloodhound flings a knife they had stolen off of one of the Predators at the ground. It lands point down onto a rock, the metal bending from the pressure._

_"They are cowards! And sadists! And butchers! We have prayed to them for years, and still they ignore us! They let this happen! They must have wanted it to happen! How do you know they do not hate us? Do not despise us, and curse our names, and laugh at our graves? Perhaps they do not welcome our people into Valhalla or Fólkvangr. Or perhaps, have you ever thought of this, they do not exist at all!"_

_Bloodhound immediately feels wrong, as though they have just uttered a great and terrible secret._

_Their stomach twists up in knots and they look up fearfully at the sky as though expecting a lightning bolt to strike them down._

_But the sky is, for the first time in months, completely clear._

_The gods do not punish them._

_They must only be watching._

_Useless, worthless, cosmic beings that do nothing but watch._

_"...Armann, I...I didn't mean-"_

_They stiffen as they feel Armann's arms around them._

_They try to pull away, but he easily holds on._

_His hair rubs at Bloodhound's chin, his warm, handsome face pressing into their chest._

_"You are upset. You have every right to be," he says, voice tranquil, going directly to their heart, calming it. "And you can question the gods. Choose not to believe in them at all. After everything we've been through, it's only natural. But don't give up on the idea of salvation. Or of hope. Or of love, even when it seems like these things must not exist in a world as cruel as this. You must know, in your heart, that they do. Your heart, so full of bravery and compassion and loyalty. And so capable of being overwrought with disgust, with horror, with sorrow. Pain and suffering are a part of life. Loss is a part of life. Loneliness is a part of life. But so is happiness. So is...companionship. Friendship. Laughter. As long as we are alive, we are capable of finding all of these things. We are capable of hope, that which allows us to continue on, in search of these things. Look at those stars, Atli! Did you ever think we'd see those again? And now they greet us. They came out to say you are still here. Make the most of it."_

_Bloodhound relaxes into the hug._

_They hold Armann close, their fingers running through his hair, over his neck, rubbing his back._

_He pulls away from them, sitting up, looking at Bloodhound with a fondness that makes them feel embarrassed for some reason._

_"Do you remember how we used to play outside of Valkana? That mangy mutt of yours, always getting under our feet when we tried to throw balls to one another, or tripping us up when we played Keep Away?"_

_"I remember. She was so small..."_

_"Me, I always preferred ravens," Armann says. "Less clean up, much more intelligent."_

_"And the Allfather knows, you needed the extra brain power," Bloodhound teases._

_Armann laughs uproariously, slapping them on the back._

_"Yes, I did, didn't I? You remember it, don't you, Muninn? They probably stuffed her into some exotic 'ancient Earth'  zoo exhibit, but I'd like to think she's still alive. Or that they tried to breed her with Huginn, just because ravens are extinct, outside of the ones we owned. I like to think so. I hope so."_

_Bloodhound grabs his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly._

_They say nothing for a while, merely sitting in silence, watching the stars twinkle in the sky._

_It's been so long since Bloodhound has looked up simply because they want to, and not because they were scanning for traps or for enemies._

_So long since they have enjoyed the scenery, looked at the trees and rocks and the sky simply because they want to take it all in, nature's glory, and not because they need to look at tracks._

_"God, I miss Dad," Armann says unexpectedly. "And Mom. I hope she's ok. I hope she escaped."_

_"I hope my mom did too. I hope they found each other."_

_"I hope they went away and hid, and everyone else went away and hid with them, and they're looking for us. And waiting for us to show up one day, against all odds."_

_"I hope we die with dignity."_

_"No, don't hope for just that! I hope..." Armann pauses. "I hope that we escape. That we find our way off this planet, and find our parents. Find our ravens and wolves and our brothers and sisters and cousins all waiting for us, somewhere. Anywhere."_

_"I hope..." Bloodhound struggles to think of something that could one-up that. But they can't, because they can't imagine anything better than finding their mother. Their clan. Even if it is broken and scattered, all through out the galaxy, even if the people they find are no longer the same as the people they'd left, Bloodhound wants more than anything to see them again._

_To tell them about what has happened here._

_Because surely Mother, and all the others, must be filled with this same terrible longing to know what has happened to their counterparts._

_"I...hope...that if we die here, we can die together. At the same time," Bloodhound whispers. "I can't bear the thought of being all alone, without you. I can't bear the thought of surviving, living, running, and hiding by myself. I don't want to be without you. Not even for a minute. Not for a whole second."_

_They close their eyes._

_Tears clinging to their eyelashes._

_To their surprise, they feel Armann's dry and cracked lips on their cheek._

_They open their eyes and find his face only inches away from theirs, brown eyes so kind they can't breathe, mouth crinkled into a smile so loving, so vulnerable that their heart feels like it skips a beat._

_"You aren't getting rid of me," he says, his breath ghosting over Bloodhound's skin, sending pleasant tingles across their face. "Doesn't matter when you die, or when I die, you'll never be rid of me. I'll be in your heart forever. And you'll be in mine forever, do you hear me? Whatever afterlife there is, whether it's ours or someone else's, or even if there is no afterlife, and my soul is just floating around in space, watching the universe explode into trillions of pieces, you and I aren't going to be apart. Ever. It's you and me, always."_

_Always._

_It's such a powerful word._

_One that Bloodhound hasn't thought of in a long time._

_Because as a leader, they had never been able to know, with absolute certainty._

_They could never count on anyone, or anything._

_They could never assume that their position was safe, or that their people would be alright, or that their lives would continue on._

_Always. Always._

_Bloodhound leans forward._

_Their lips press firmly against Armann's._

_His hand reaches out and takes a hold of theirs._

_Their fingers intertwine._

_Always, always, never going to be apart. Ever._

_He's wrong, as always._

_But he's also right._

_This time he's right, even though he's also wrong._

_This time, Bloodhound can believe him. Or perhaps simply wants to believe him._

_But it doesn't matter at this point anyway._

_Always, always, Bloodhound mouths into Armann's neck, making him giggle as though they were children again, rolling around in a cave they found one day after wandering away from their parents._

_The tears spill from their eyes, staining Armann's shirt._

_"I was scared when we got here," Armann says breathlessly, having a hard time talking with Bloodhound's body underneath his, their hands on his hips, pulling him as close as humanly possible. "I was so scared. I tried to scare you, because I didn't want you to think I was a big baby, over reacting, so I tried to make you as scared as me. Didn't work, did it? You weren't scared. And you aren't scared now."_

_Bloodhound's hands dig into his back._

_He doesn't speak for a while, only kissing Bloodhound as hard as he can, with every ounce of passion he can muster, knowing they don't have much time left, knowing that his passion is finite in an eternal universe. He kisses them like a man possessed, trying to find every secret they have._

_But he can't seem to resist speaking, words coming out of his mouth in a flood of pent up emotions and feelings he needs to share before the end._

_"I'm not scared anymore. I'm not. You've made me brave. You've made me the man I am today, Hound. I'm yours, I'm what you've made me. I'm proud of who I am, and I'd do it all again, even the horrible parts, just because I know you and I will make it through together. Because I know we'll make it here. I'm so happy. I'm so happy, Atli, I'm-I-I wish we could-"_

_"Isn't forever enough for you?" Bloodhound asks coyly._

_Armann's face lights up like a beacon._

_He laughs and laughs and laughs, and suddenly the fear that had stalked them their entire lives is gone, lifted by a moment of levity, by a moment of passion, an outpouring of love._

_A moment that could last forever, one of those unbearably finite human moments that stretches itself in the human heart into infinity._

_For just one, heavy, powerful moment, they are free._

Bloodhound shows Mirage their knife.

The handle is wrapped with a thin blue string, which is braided together with a black lock of hair. 

"Always," Bloodhound whispers. "Always at my side." 

_Clasped in my hands, forever._

"...What...happened to him?" Mirage asks tentatively. 

But all of a sudden, a warning siren begins to blare.

And they hear a woman's voice echoing across the entire island.

"Ring closing." 

Bloodhound stands up slowly. 

"We have reached the 48 hour mark," they say stiffly, their voice, previously soft and vulnerable, now hard and business like again. "There are only 24 hours left on this island. And 12 hours before the ring begins to close at an exponential rate. Come."

They reach out to Mirage.

Feeling better now, although hungry, he takes their hand and allows them to pull him to his feet. 

"Thank you," he says. "For not letting me die."  

"You're welcome, Elliott," Bloodhound says. "But please stop making it a habit of yours." 

"And um..." 

Caustic walks over to them, looking as cross as usual.

"It's Artillery, like I suspected. Come along."

He walks quickly away, in the direction of Artillery. 

"I just also wanted to thank you for...reminding me of how much family matters," Elliott murmurs. "It's...easy to lose perspective. To get lost and confused and...forget about the things that we love. And the things that matter. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, about what I said before. Family was everything to you, and it was, is, everything to me. I didn't mean anything I said, I just, I just-" 

"Don't mention it," Bloodhound murmurs as they begin to walk up the steep incline to follow Caustic. "When someone you love is gone, it's easy to forget why they were so important to you, why their love was so worth protecting and cherishing. With enough time, even the most special people fade from your heart. It's your duty to yourself to never let them fade forever. Even if that means letting them go, you hold onto them forever by learning, by changing, growing from their influence on you." 

Elliott nods, even though the masked hunter is not looking at them. 

He stares at their back as they walk. 

Then his eyes drift to their knife. 

Wondering what had happened to the last person they ever loved.  

How it had made them into the person they are now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is it about the wilderness that makes people so gay?
> 
> I dunno. 
> 
> Someone wrote Brokeback Mountain, I wrote Borderlines, which I have affectionately dubbed gay dystopian camping (shameless plug: https://www.amazon.com/Borderlines-K-L-Somniate/dp/1544117671, I have a tendency to write gay emotional shit, and I feel like you should know about it). 
> 
> Anyway notes on this chapter: 
> 
> \- I have none, I'm actually emotionally compromised. Have a good night.


	21. Five Squads Remaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys feeling the SLOW BURN YET? Jesus Christ, a snail in molasses moves faster than my fucking romances do. I promise though, when I finally get there, that shit's gonna boil.

"If you get shot and begin to bleed out, please have the decency to do so in the ring," Caustic says dryly. 

"If you're going to grace my presence with another knockdown fart, please have the decency to let me know so I can shoot at my  _fourth_ enemy," Mirage snaps back. 

"You wasted my personal antidote."

" _That_ is victim blaming. You  _gassed_ me."

"You were an acceptable loss."

"Tell me, Caustic, did you say the same thing when you looked in the mirror and saw all of your hair was starting to fall out?" 

"That's enough, children," Bloodhound says with some amusement. 

"Don't tell me what to do, Dad," Mirage says back, smile on his face, but a nasty glint still in his eyes as he watches Caustic. "He started it."

Bloodhound's raven turns its head to look at Mirage. 

Its beady little eyes fix on him. 

"Where did you get that thing, anyway? How's the clean up on birds anyway? I've always wanted a parakeet." 

"Muninn is the descendant of multiple ravens my family used to breed and care for," Bloodhound says. "She is one of many ravens born from the original Huginn and Muninn pair that Armann's parents raised." 

Mirage pauses at the name.

"...Armann's family raised ravens?" he asks curiously. 

"Yes."

"And yours raised...?"

Bloodhound pauses, looking carefully at a huge bone protruding out of the ground, moss clinging to its curved texture. 

"Wolves," they say. "But the IMC killed all of them." 

They keep walking, this time a little more stiffly than before. 

"Sorry," Mirage says, taking longer strides to catch up. "I was, uh, just curious."

"It's alright," Bloodhound says, voice rather serene. "It has been many years since these things happened."

"I personally don't see the appeal of domesticated animals," Caustic grunts in front of them, not looking back. "Too messy, unpredictable, and rather useless when compared to machinery and more refined tools." 

Mirage scowls at him. 

"Yeah and no animal alive can withstand the force of your body odor. You'd make a ferret's nose shrivel up and fall off." 

"You're more of a pet at this point than a team mate," Caustic jabs back. 

"At least I'm friendly," Mirage says cheerfully. "And fun to be around. You're like some kind of floating parasite that attached to one of our ass cracks and started emitting a smell so strong, no one anywhere on this island could light a match without setting you off." 

"As entertaining as this may be, you-" but Bloodhound doesn't get to finish their sentence.

A bullet slams into their face, bouncing off the energy helmet, but still throwing them backwards, neck snapping back. 

Mirage, behind them and reacting quickly, catches them before they fall. 

He drags Bloodhound behind the nearest rock and peers around it swiftly.

"Where the hell did that come from?" he asks.

Bloodhound points. 

Caustic, who'd hurried beside them near the rock for cover, dives down the hill to reposition himself closer to the gunfire. 

"One shooting from a supply bin, two approaching," Mirage says. "Ok, got it!"

"Wait-" 

But Mirage bounds forward. 

"Go bamboozle them!" 

A decoy charges at the enemy squad.

They shoot it down, but pause, looking confused as it keeps running, then fizzles out. 

The real Mirage grins and begins to shoot with his wingman. 

He then ducks as they return fire, hiding behind a narrow tree, which doesn't offer much protection as all three aim at it, their bullets digging through the tree's bark. 

"Caustic!" 

The scientist doesn't need to be told what to do.

He throws a thermite grenade, forcing the enemy squad to back off, allowing Mirage to throw out another decoy and run in another direction. 

The Holo Pilot technician dodges and weaves, heading towards Caustic.

Side by side, they shoot at the enemy squad, their bullets grinding through shields. 

But as the three begin to spread out, dodging and getting their bearings, both men split. 

Caustic slides behind a nearby hill, devotion still smoking. 

Mirage manages to hide behind one of the relatively thin rib bones. 

Bullets whiz passed him, some bouncing off the bone, others barely whiffing passed his face. 

"Holy shit!" 

Caustic, being the closest, is the one the squad goes for first. 

He throws out a gas trap and shoots at the lid. 

Gas immediately sprays out, forcing the three enemies to back up, waving their hands in front of their faces in alarm. 

Mirage sees his opportunity and lurches out from behind his hiding place, switching to his Peacekeeper and charging across the field to take them out while they're focused on Caustic.

He approaches them, but is wary of Caustic's gas, seeing how it races across the grass with the wind, billowing gently around him.

He backs up, is aware of the enemy team beginning to turn around, firing wildly in panic. 

He throws himself to the ground just in time as gunshots sound over head. 

He rolls out of the way, and sees Caustic grunt, on his knees, blood gushing from a shoulder. 

He raises his weapon, intending to shoot whoever emerges from that gas next. 

But then he's suddenly aware of a strange noise, almost like a low roar, a lion's snarl. 

Then he's seeing something red streaking across the field, moving inhumanly fast, flying down the hill like some kind of demon straight out of hell, body emitting a faint trail of crimson. 

A man with a Longbow stumbles out of the gas, looking confused and pained, coughing. 

He sees the red streak, looks even more bewildered, and turns the gun towards it, but before he can fire at this new target, it crashes into him.

Catching him around the stomach and throwing him hard into the ground. 

It's Bloodhound, Mirage realizes with a jolt of shock.

Only they're...

Bloodhound raises their left arm, resting their rifle on their wrist.

And with practiced ease, not scoping in, they shoot the man point blank with the sniper rifle, the proximity too much for the force of the gun, blowing his entire head into tiny bloody pieces, not chunks, but pieces. 

Then, faster than Mirage's eyes can track, they spin around, and fire again. 

Mirage can't even see through the smoke, but somehow Bloodhound can.

And somehow, not only can they see through smoke, they can also shoot a man straight through the left eye. 

He falls out of the gas cloud face first, dead almost instantly. 

Bloodhound darts in. 

"How the hell-?" Mirage yells to Caustic, but he can't finish his question because the look on the man's face immediately unsettles him.

It is gleeful. 

Eager.

Hungry, almost, as though watching Bloodhound with not only rapt interest, but with a powerful bloodlust. 

The last man in the smoke howls. 

And he too finally exits Caustic's gas cloud.

He stumbles back, looking panicked. 

"I surrender, I surrender, please don't kill me!" he yells. "I have kids, I-" 

But whatever else he had to say is cut off.

Bloodhound's dagger flies from between their fingers with deadly precision and control.

It implants itself firmly in between his eyes. 

The man stands still for a moment, looking stupidly surprised. 

He almost reaches up to touch the dagger in his head, but then his knees give out.

And he falls onto his back with a resounding thump. 

Mirage stands up abruptly. 

"Woah. That was incredible, Hound, I've never seen-"

Bloodhound whirls on him so fast he can't even see it. One moment, Bloodhound is some distance away, staring down on their kill, the next they're on him, hands on his throat. 

"Do not call me that," they snarl, their voice wild, almost feral. Mirage gulps, seeing their masked eyed glowing red, giving him the impression that he's being held by some kind of red-eyed monster. 

"I-I'm sorry, Bloodhound. I've called you it before-"

"Then do not do it again," Bloodhound growls, shaking him a little before releasing him. 

Mirage gasps, clutching his sore neck, a little stunned by the change in his team mate.

He watches as Bloodhound walks away from him, taking short, choppy strides, head snapping from side to side like a wild animal's. They walk oddly, like a wolf pacing back and forward over a foreign, hostile smell, patrolling its territory. After some time, the red glow begins to fade just a little.

And they kneel next to Caustic, who is bleeding but seems to be waiting patiently.

"Fantastic," the old scientist murmurs, reaching out to touch Bloodhound, who lurches back, letting out an angry warning huff. "I was quite hoping to see the Beast again, Bloodhound, thank you."

Bloodhound doesn't reply, merely shaking their head irritably at him.

Mirage walks over slowly, moving even slower when Bloodhound's head snaps warningly in his direction.

"What the hell is the matter with them?" he asks Caustic.

"I saw it last year, during the last game. They have a syringe full of some type of anabolic steroid that allows them to move quicker, react faster, and follow any prey they set their sights on until they get the kill. It is extremely powerful. Last year, they killed two entire squads on their own, using their increased speed and fast reaction time to gun down three people before they even knew they were being fired at. Then the squad they had been fighting, injured from their battle, turned tail to run, but they wouldn't let them escape. No matter where they went, Bloodhound was right behind, on their trail, a shark chasing blood in the water. I've never seen such superb hunting, such stellar lethal technique. Bloodhound would never let me take one, but I would kill to get a hold of whatever it is they use..." Caustic looks longingly at Bloodhound, who almost doesn't seem human, the way they are shaking their head, skulking across the field like an overstimulated predator. 

After a while, the red glows fades completely.

And Bloodhound sighs, their voice back to normal. 

Mirage, a little nervous, backs away as they approach Caustic and him.

"Are you two alright?" 

Caustic, healing up, nods. 

"Excellent work," he says, his voice almost warm. "I thought I'd set up a trap for you."

"It worked," Bloodhound says. "Well timed team work."

For the first time this game, Mirage sees Caustic look...almost pleased.

It makes him want to barf. 

"Ugh...I'm getting away from you two. You because your gas is making me nauseous," he says, pointing accusingly at Caustic. "And you because you...are creeping me out." 

He stalks away, feeling queasy for reasons that have nothing to do with the gas.

He's seen a lot of people die in the last 48 hours. 

He's starting to get tired of it.

Of running around, shooting, hiding. 

Of being on edge and feeling as though someone has their sniper aimed directly at his forehead. 

He'd thought maybe this would be exciting. 

Maybe this would be fun, make him feel exhilarated again, the way he used to back on the Apex Predator team.

But so far, it's been rather horrible. 

And Bloodhound has given him a lot to think about. 

Made him wonder if this is the kind of man he wants to be. Hiding, shooting, killing. Rinse, repeat.

Murdering because it's necessary, or murdering because it's fun.

No difference, someone is still dead by the end of the day. 

He takes a seat on the warm grass, wishing for the umpteenth time this game that he had a drink. When they win this thing, he's heading straight for the nearest bar. If they win, he'll have really earned it. 

He jumps in surprise as Bloodhound sits next to him, having not heard them approach.

"You alright?" they ask.

He nods, forcing a smile on his face. 

"Yeah, yeah, those guys had terrible aim." 

Bloodhound stares keenly at him. 

"I did not mean physically."

He snorts.

"I'm fine. I've seen plenty of people die. It's nothing, really. It just sometimes does something to me is all. Makes me a little uneasy. But that didn't happen this time. Not really. Just felt a little off, is all."

"Not all people are natural born killers, Mirage."

"Are you saying you are?" 

"No. But I take to it well." 

"Well...maybe I do too."

"Perhaps. But knowing all that you know, would you be interested in participating in another Apex Game? Say, next year?" 

They wait patiently, but Mirage doesn't have an answer for them.

The question throws him off quite a bit, actually. 

He bites his lip, looking pensively across the sea of grass, Caustic cleaning up his gas traps out of the corner of his eye. 

"I don't know," he admits. "This has been kind of rough. And I'm not about the paranoia. Or the killing. I thought I would be, but...I dunno. It doesn't really excite me the way I thought it would."

"How did you think it would excite you?" Bloodhound asks, their voice solemn. 

"Well I...I didn't exactly relish in killing people before, but...it was kind of a rush. Kind of exciting to be executing someone, I can't lie. Got my blood pumping. Made my head buzz like an alcohol high. The guys and I used to play ping pong after a day of killing. The adrenaline took so long to leave our bodies, I guess, made everything feel more intense. But...it's been different in the ring. It doesn't feel...like it used to."

"Defenseless victims gave you a rush, but people who shoot back don't," Bloodhound says matter of factly. "I am the opposite." 

"You only like prey that can fight back, huh?" Mirage asks. "Good for you, always challenging yourself."

He says it sarcastically, but Bloodhound seems to take the question seriously. 

"I do not slaughter those who cannot defend themselves. Those who are here volunteered to be here. They came believing they could best one another. That they could best me. I experience this high you speak of when I slaughter them and prove them wrong." 

Mirage blinks, feeling a tad uncomfortable. 

Bloodhound's voice is many things, soft, strong, airy, firm. 

It is capable of being kind and warm and compassionate.

But right now, it sounds empty.

Harsh and impartial. 

"Hey you don't have to defend yourself, man- I mean buddy," Mirage corrects himself. "God knows I've done a lot of killing.  I just think that in the ring, killing people wasn't what it was cracked up to be..."

But Bloodhound seems disturbed by something. 

"I enjoy it, Mirage. In the ring, outside of it. I enjoy punishing people who would dare oppose me," Bloodhound murmurs. "Their begging is like music to my ears. Their faces while they're crying for mercy help me sleep at night."

Mirage feels his stomach twist with discomfort at their words.

"Ah...ok...creepy, but-"

"Creepy?" Bloodhound asks, voice a little high, almost tinny. "Do you see me as a monster, Mirage?"

"What? No. No, hey, Bloodhound, we're...uh. Friends. We've saved each other's asses quite a few times, shared some traumatizing stories, killed some people together. It's been a good time, just...uh, hanging. I just wish we were on a camping retreat instead of hauling ass to shoot someone all the time, is all. You do you, friend. If murder is what excites you, god knows I can't judge! I used to do it for a living. I was as desensitized as you could get. I just suppose that...I dunno, thinking about my family, talking about it with you just made me...remember I used to be someone different. And that just...makes it a little harder to do my job. But that's all. I'm not judging you, I'd never judge you, Bloodhound." 

He speaks quickly, a little nervously, stumbling on some of his words.

To his relief, Bloodhound seems to accept his explanation.

They relax. 

"If I am a monster, then they are something much worse," they murmur. 

Mirage watches them hold their knife in their hands, having pulled it out of its last victim's head only recently. 

His eyes fall to Armann's lock of hair. 

"They deserve this," Bloodhound says, rubbing the blood off of the blade by sliding it along the ground. "They do not deserve mercy."

"They're killers, I agr-" Mirage begins to say, but is cut off by the quiet masked hunter. 

"They are more than that. They work for the IMC, were trained by it. Were affiliated with those who were complicit in IMC operations. Or were complicit themselves in the imperialistic reach of the IMC. They fight for entertainment, for glory, for the monetary reward, for the fame. I fight, and kill, them because I am more powerful than they are. I am everything the IMC tried to destroy, and I will not be destroyed. That is why I am here, Mirage. I am alive, despite their best efforts, I have survived, and I will continue to survive as long as the Allfather wills it. Perhaps it is not what Armann would have wanted, but...but I hope he would understand."

Again, the name seems to soften Bloodhound's lips, mellowing their voice from high-spirited and determined to melancholic and contemplative. 

Mirage eyes them, debating internally with himself, wondering if he should ask the question he's dying to ask. 

But after a painful ten seconds, he decides that he can't resist asking.

"You never did tell me...how he died."

Bloodhound looks away. 

"I do not wish to speak of it right now."

"Oh...well. That's fine. But, then, I gotta ask...you said you enjoy killing these people because they're affiliated with the IMC somehow...but every human being in the universe as of right now has been affected by the IMC in some way. Most of them have probably been complicit in IMC business, that's just powerful they are. What do you want people to do? They can't just...cut the IMC out of their lives completely. They rely on it, they need it for food, water, energy-"

"Being a simple cog in the machine of a corrupt, evil system does not excuse you from moral judgment," Bloodhound says darkly, their voice growing harsher with every word. 

"No, of course not, I just think some people just get...caught in the flow-"

"No one cared about my people when they fought with us for our land," Bloodhound says. "No one cared about my people when they took it from us, when they relocated us, when they killed everyone but me. I don't care what they were taught as children, I don't care what their life stories are, what they dream of, what they believe in. No matter how brainwashed or foolish a person is, they should be able to see injustice and know, that is wrong. I would not wish to be treated in such a way. But if they do nothing, if they simply allow injustice to happen, to anyone, anywhere, because they care more about their well being than doing what is right? Then they are as evil as those who have done great evil. I would not strike out at all human beings who live by the IMC's rules. I simply don't have the time. But I would not weep for their suffering either. And here in the ring, I take great satisfaction spilling the blood of subhuman pigs, who lived happily and ignorantly in a human society that my people were deemed unworthy of living in." 

They turn away from Mirage, their voice cracking just a little with stress. 

He doesn't know what to say to that.

He tries to imagine how he'd feel if someone had killed his entire family.... but then, he was the perpetrator in his case. 

He was the one who divided them. 

Perhaps that's why he felt the need to defend those living under the IMC from Bloodhound so badly... 

But then again... Bloodhound seems to blame everyone, for allowing their family's massacre to happen. 

And perhaps blame is to be spread around.

"Do you hate me? I used to be an Apex Predator." 

"A symptom of a greater disease," Bloodhound says dismissively. 

"I was as complicit under IMC rule as anyone else. You keep not letting me die..."

"You are my team mate."

"Sure. But my team mate wouldn't care so much about my family, or my emotional well being. My team mate wouldn't come over to make sure I was alright, when they know I wasn't hurt. Only a friend would do that."

He looks hard at Bloodhound, who stares back. 

"..." 

"You don't have to forgive people," he says. "I know I wouldn't forgive them. And I can't even forgive myself for what I did to my own family. But you have this...sensitivity. This intuition, about people, I can tell. You understand people. You know more about them than they know about you, and I guess you protect yourself that way. But I think maybe, deep down, you just keep people at bay, and act as though they're all monsters, that they're all the same as the people who wronged you, because you're afraid to be attached to any of them again. You're afraid of growing close to someone again, and losing them, so it's easier to pretend they're all evil. People act untrustworthy when you don't want to trust them. They act unlovable when you're afraid of loving them. It hurts to care, I know, and I can't pretend to know how you feel, I just don't think you're being totally honest with yourself. And since you slapped some sense into me, I thought maybe I could return the favor a little bit." He pauses, wondering if he's about to get slapped for saying all of that shit he'd just said.  

Bloodhound doesn't speak or even move for a long time.

So long that Mirage starts to sweat a little, uncomfortable, but unable to look away. 

"Don't try to understand me again," they say finally. "You will never understand me." 

And they gracefully stand up and walk away without a second glance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll have no idea how much self control it took for me to NOT reveal the last bit of Bloodhound's backstory just yet. 
> 
> It's gonna be so much fun to write, because I'm apparently that sadistic to my favorite Apex character, but I had to stop it here because it just made sense to stop it here. 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> \- did ya'll think bloodhound was a saint? nah, son. elliott's finally kicking his bad habits and more sadistic urges, but now he's saying wait hold up, the person who told me to forgive myself is also kind of mentally unstable. 
> 
> \- i do wanna stress though, that Bloodhound is not a sadistic person by nature, nor are they intent on world domination or some revenge terrorism. Deep down, they are still that kind child they used to be, who didn't like hunting or hurting any living thing. But years of being tortured and neglected and treated like vermin will change a person, and they have this very jaded and bitter view of humanity. It just so happens that Mirage's clear turmoil over his family situation brought back Bloodhound's memories of their own family, and it brought back some of their more natural kind and thoughtful nature.
> 
> \- on a more technical note, don't fucking ask me exactly how Bloodhound's ultimate works. They go FERAL for some reason? I dunno, my interpretation for this fic is that it's some kind of anabolic steroid that only temporarily increases speed and agility and sharpens Bloodhound's senses. It's actually plot relevant later, but in terms of actual biology, I dunno. Just pretend it's not testoserone, pretend it's some new age future shit. it's like a shot of 5 hour energy right into the bloodstream.


	22. Four Squads Remaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *angry tired muttering 
> 
> It's 8 am and I haven't slept yet, what is wrong with me? 
> 
> Anyway have more of this fic you're inexplicably enjoying... hope you play Apex and think about me every time you die at bunker...

Artillery has the appearance of a large shipment and cargo landing port for incoming airships.

There is a large facility to the north and a sprawling mini metropolis of buildings, anti aircraft defenses, warehouses, and open-aired bunkers that can be entered and exited easily from one end to the next.

Mirage, bored, sits in the corner of one of these rooms, fiddling with his Holo Pilot emitters, scratching his exposed arms irritably.

Caustic had gone off with Bloodhound, who clearly just didn’t want to be alone with Mirage, to set up his traps in strategic locations.

Mirage feels unsettled by his and Bloodhound’s earlier conversation.

He’s not sure if he’d been way off mark, or perhaps a little too on the mark.

It’s not such a ridiculous notion, though.

Bloodhound may be a ruthless and effective killer, but sometimes he sees something quite different in them.

A spark of something much warmer, much kinder.

Stroking his hair almost maternally when they were in the Swamp.

Thanking him for saving their life.

He remembers the kindness in their voice when they told him not to be ashamed of missing his family.

And the pain they had expressed, how much they clearly missed their own family.

This Bloodhound seems so radically different from the Bloodhound that can take down two squads on their own.

Yet they are the same person, at heart, despite their fundamentally opposing synergies.

And Mirage wants to understand more about them, wants to know how this Bloodhound came to be, how they could be so loyal, unwilling to leave behind team mates, and attentive to the emotional needs of others, yet at the same time very distant, cold, and inattentive to their own emotional needs.

Maybe it’s the ring, maybe it’s the fact that Bloodhound has saved his ass quite a few times this game, but something deep in his chest is irresistibly attracted to this masked hunter. And not in the way he has been attracted to people in the past, both male and female, but in a deeper, more meaningful way.

He wonders if he should go find Bloodhound now, and try and talk to them.

But they had made it quite clear that they do not wish to speak with him right now.

He hopes that it doesn’t last for the rest of the game.

* * *

Although Caustic is hardly an ideal companion, he is at the very least mercifully _silent._

He does not speak, other than when he gives Bloodhound short instructions, such as to lift a trap for him or set down its lid.

They work in silence for a few hours, both maintaining a cordial, productive quietness as they pass through building after building in Artillery. Caustic is out of gas traps, but he is quite ingenious, almost maniacal, when it comes to other methods of catching prey unawares. He makes use of regular grenades, thermite grenades, and arc stars to set up a trap at the main doors of the large northern facility, activated by a tripwire.

“Make sure I remember to tell the idiot not to use the main doors to enter this building,” he muses.

He cuts one of the ziplines leading to the building.

“They can only enter through this side, using this zipline,” he says, pointing to the right door leading out onto the building’s balcony. “I have a gas trap waiting right beside it, hidden from anyone approaching, using the line. I will activate it when you see them coming.”

“You wish to use this building as our final location?”

“No, but it is a good place to come back to and defend if we are overwhelmed.”

He stares at the door, a million scenarios most likely running through his head.

But then, Bloodhound almost hears his brain slowing down as he turns to look at them.

“Tell me. What did the fool say to you?”

“His name is Mirage,” Bloodhound says.

“What did Mirage say to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t believe you would agree to come help me with set up unless you were trying to avoid our third team mate, who said, quote, there was no chance in hell that he would be setting up any weapons of flatulent destruction with me, end quote. So you must be attempting to avoid him. What did he say to produce such a reaction in you?”

He says it so stiffly, so seriously that it’s almost comical.

But Bloodhound hasn’t felt like laughing in hours.

“He was merely...disturbed when I told him that I enjoyed killing the squad we downed earlier. He does not understand the joys of the hunt, nor the satisfaction of bringing down intelligent prey.”

“He is small,” Caustic says with a sneer. “Weak, helpless, and completely oblivious to the fact. He is below us.”

“I would not go so far as to say that…”

“But you must know it’s true. He has been useful, but he does not truly belong here. You must sense it. His desire to harm others is childish in nature. The callousness of a spoiled brat. Ours is much more refined. We hunt for the thrill of it. To revel in destruction. To feel our lives racing to their ends vicariously through others. We know we are mortal, and death is always near, always possible, but we also know that by taking the lives of others, ours are more fulfilled. Ours are made meaningful. I might be a man of science, but even I can be inclined towards my baser human instincts. I participate in the Apex Games because I enjoy my work, not simply to work. You are the same.”

Caustic rubs his hands on the front of his lab coat, pulling his goggles up onto his forehead, looking outside at the setting sun.

“Men such as Mirage are insignificant in comparison to people like us,” he rumbles. “We view humanity as it truly is. One species of many, living amongst the stars, believing it is special and important because it is sentient, but fragile and small for not understanding how small its existence truly is. Our lives are not even a blink in the eyes of a vast and timeless universe. The very human experience is barely a blink, hardly a ripple, in the vast expanse of space. Our time will come and go, our buildings will decay, our people will be extinct, and all traces of us will be gone before the universe even realizes we were here. Yet they go on, living their lives, clinging to their families, their friends, acting as though their feelings matter. Thinking that their relationships are important, that the time and effort they dedicated into building such things are what make them meaningful. They are right to fear death, because they do not truly understand, nor seek to understand what it means to be alive. And that is only understood by embracing death, and meaninglessness. That is understanding we can only conquer our mortality by challenging the lives and ideologies of others through our desiccation.”  

He speaks slowly, yet passionately, with more feeling than Bloodhound has ever heard from him.

And Bloodhound doesn’t think they’ve ever heard him say so many words at once.

“All we know is death, Bloodhound. It is in the air we breathe, in our very lungs, the oxygen circulating through our systems, pumping energy into our hearts, feeding our minds, giving us the will to move on. There is no hope for us, but there is purpose.”

He closes his eyes and stands perfectly still, arms crossed, still facing the dying light of the sun.

“Do not be bothered by his squeaking and posturing,” Caustic says finally. “Friendship, familial relationships, mating rituals, all of these things are so finite, so unstable, and  are ultimately pointless endeavors of a race hopelessly clinging to its own fragile existence. Put him out of your mind, and focus on the task at hand. Although I do not understand your Allfather or your religion, I do understand the call of the hunt. I do understand your desire to end lives to fulfill your own. It is basic human nature, yet simply by embracing it, you transcend such simplicity. It is for that reason, you and I work well together.”

He opens his eyes, uncrosses his arms, and walks out the door, probably to check on his trap, as he has obsessively done with all of his little traps.

Leaving Bloodhound in the building alone, thinking about what he’d said.

* * *

_Bloodhound rubs sweat from their forehead, feeling the exhaustion in their core, feeling their heart beating irregularly and much too loudly in their chest, eyes strained, hands shaking ever so slightly._

_They have been running for days, trying to dodge the ring slowly closing in on them, forcing them foot by foot closer to the IMC camp._

_They can't have slept for more than three hours at a time._

_They haven't spoken in days either, since the IMC has been nipping at their heels as well with frequent patrols, always a hairbreadth away._

_Bloodhound misses their conversations, but when Armann, curled up beside him in a shallow dip in the earth, with bushes and branches pulled over their bodies, reaches out to squeeze their hand reassuringly, something like a conversation passes between them._

_They wish they could hold his hand forever._

_But today, their hands are shaking._

_And so are his._

_Today, the last strip of woodland will be overcome by the ring._

_And it's now or never._

_It's the dead of night when they first approach the nearest IMC headquarters, which, Bloodhound notes with no small amount of dark irony, is the same one they had been dropped off closest to when they'd first arrived._

_They both wait as close as they dare, watching every exit and entrance._

_Finally, Bloodhound points out a young recruit who sneaks out for a smoke._

_He is probably barely old enough to be in the service, but this does not concern the hunters, who have been running day and night on little water and no food, and do not have room left in their hearts for empathy._

_Armann leaps on him, drags him off, and slowly, but surely strangles him._

_He dies kicking and trying to scream, but unable to._

_Armann, dead-eyed, strips his corpse and gives the uniform to Bloodhound._

_They walk into the base, feeling nervous, but also rather energetic, knowing that they have nothing to lose._

_Although their very survival depends on this, they can't help but feel ecstatic, being in a building again._

_Having a plan._

_Doing something other than hide._

_They walk among the other soldiers, some hurrying, some meandering, around the base, trying not to look awkward, forcing themselves not to limp or bow their heads as if deliberately trying not to be noticed._

_"I told her, man, I told her, I'm going to some piece of shit planet for some routine patrolling shit, but she still gets all up on my ass!"_

_A big man sitting on a couch in the middle of some kind of recreation room swivels in his seat. He's surrounded by young men and women in uniform, all of whom are in some state of undress, their jackets unzipped, their hats off, their shoes kicked onto the ground._

_Bloodhound feels a little queasy, almost sick, which  may have to do with the lack of food in their stomach, or just be a reaction to the room, which they remember very well as the room Albert died in, drowning in his own blood, his ribs collapsed and his lungs punctured._

_"You worried she's gonna find another man?" a confident young woman with a buzz cut asks._

_"As if she could do better than this rockin' bod," the man says, slapping his fat stomach._

_The woman guffaws._

_"She at least knows you aren't cheating on her on this piece of crap planet! Nothing sexy or scenic about this trash land. No wonder they just use it for those backwards primitive terrorists."_

_Bloodhound stops, despite themselves._

_They'd been edging across the room, trying to find a restroom, or perhaps a closet where they could ambush someone and steal their uniform for Armann._

_But even though their heart is racing, and they know they should just block them out, their entire body freezes at the sound of their people being referred to in such a way._

_"God I wish those tree loving swamp bathing star gazing hippies would just give themselves up," the big man groans. "I could be spending quality time with my lady, but here I am, waiting for them to finally call it quits and just admit, we're in the 25th century! There isn't any damn room for their dances by fire light or summoning the mystic rain gods or trying to bless the harvest by sacrificing animals to the moon. Times have changed, man, people need to as well!"_

_Everyone chuckles._

_Bloodhound feels heat rising in their face, wants to break the man's nose, and then tear his throat out._

_"I feel bad for them."_

_Bloodhound's heart pauses, just for a moment._

_They look over at who had spoken._

_It's a young woman who can't be older than thirty, glasses on her nose, book in her hand, clearly forgotten._

_"They're just trying to live their lives, you know? The IMC shouldn't have forced them off their land..."_

_"Yeah, well, who's gonna stop the IMC from doing anything?" the big man retorts. "It's their galaxy! They offered to resettle the natives peacefully, give them a stipend and their own land, but they refused. This is what they get for being so stubborn. It was entirely up to them. The smart ones escaped already. It's only the stupid ones who stayed and died, and the even dumber ones who're still alive and trying to run still."_

_The woman's jaw twitches, as though she has something else she wants to say._

_But then she just shakes her head dismissively._

_"Whatever, Elden."_

_"Oof, guess you won't be cheating on your wife with her, eh?"_

_The loud woman bumps him in the gut with her elbow._

_"Guess not!" the big man laughs. "But what about you, pretty? You wanna go for a bush rustling?"_

_Bloodhound stiffens, feeling tense as every eye turns casually towards them._

_They force a smile on their face as they meet the big man's eyes, their stomach twisting up into knots._

_"She's too pretty for you," the loud woman scoffs. "And you've made her nervous, look at the poor thing-"_

_"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you around before," Elden says boisterously. He pats the cushion beside him. "Why don't you stay and chat with us for a bit, huh? We can get to know each other."_

_Bloodhound hates being referred to with female pronouns, hates how they sound in their ears, hates the little jolt of wrongness that twists in their gut._

_They keep staring at the man, unable to look at anyone else._

_They slowly shake their head._

_"Aw, come on, baby, I don't bite. Not really. I promise, I'm not so scary once you get all close and personal..."_

_Bloodhound feels the urge to throw up rising in their throat at the implication, wanting nothing to do with this disgusting slug of a subhuman male._

_But then, the young woman with glasses comes to their defense._

_"Shut up, Elden. Who the hell would wanna get anywhere close to you?"_

_The group titters._

_Elden waves his hand, Bloodhound forgotten, at the girl._

_Bloodhound, relieved as the conversation hums along, attention diverted from them, darts into the next room._

_But to their horror, they feel a hand catch their wrist._

_"Sorry about that," the young woman with glasses says with a kind smile that makes Bloodhound sick. "He's just boisterous, he's actually a pretty nice guy once you get to know him."_

_Bloodhound jerks their head in a nod, trying to placate her without giving away anything._

_"You can come back in, if you want. I promise he won't bother you," the woman insists. She begins to pull Bloodhound back to the room._

_But they finally summon the courage to yank themselves free._

_"Sorry," they force out. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."_

_"Oh...ok," the woman says, looking concerned. "I get it. I'm exhausted too. Sleep well and we'll see you tomorrow, alright?"_

_She smiles brightly at Bloodhound one last time before turning to go back to the room._

_But Bloodhound, suddenly seized with a burning desire, seizes her wrist now._

_"I have just one question," they say._

_The woman looks surprised, even as the disguised hunter drops her hand. "Yeah?"_

_"The people on this planet...why not just let them go? Just tell the IMC you killed all of them, pack up, and just leave? Who would ever tell them that there were a few still alive? They'll die eventually, probably soon. Why bother trying to hunt down every last one?"_

_The woman doesn't respond immediately._

_She purses her lips, looking pensive._

_"We're here to do a job," she says finally, firmly. "I do feel bad for them, but Elden is right. They did make this a lot more difficult for themselves. I wouldn't say they deserve it, but they had to know this was going to happen. We have to make sure all of them are neutralized. Besides, they're kind of dangerous. They've killed a lot of people. I'm not sure what kind of people they are, but they're definitely dangerous. Stay sharp, kid, they're pretty crafty."_

_She smiles at them and gives them one last wave before re-entering the common room._

_Bloodhound, rage boiling in their stomach, but composure maintained, begins to look for another suitable target._

_Luckily, they find one._

_A tall, lanky young man lying in a bunk bed smokes a cigar, looking bored._

_No one else is in the bedroom filled with bunk beds; they must all be in the common room or on duty._

_He looks up lazily as Bloodhound approaches._

_"'Sup?"_

_"You should not  be smoking in doors," Bloodhound says._

_"You gonna tell on me?" he asks. His eyes do a quick scan of Bloodhound's body, stopping on one area in particular before flitting back to their face._

_Once again, they are seized with disgust, and anger, but they force themselves not to show any of it._

_Instead, they try to smile as convincingly as possible, trying to appear nonchalant, maybe even friendly._

_"No, but you- we should take it outside, don't you think?"_

_Even though every muscle in their body is screaming out in loathing, wanting to be as far from him as possible, they force themselves closer._

_They sit beside him, feeling the mattress sinking below their combined weight, feels the man's leg nudging against theirs, thigh thick and round with muscle._

_They reach out and touch his leg, squeezing it gently, hoping he gets the implication._

_When they finally have the nerve to look at his face, they see him grinning lecherously, having received the message loud and clear._

_"I think so, yeah. Kinda cold out there, though. And it's pretty empty in here..."_

_Bloodhound feels panic surging through their chest as he takes a hold of their hand and begins to push it higher, closer to his crotch._

_"Anyone could walk in," they say, trying not to sound scared, or to let slip how desperate they are to get him outside._

_"They can join in, if you want," the man says. He lets go of Bloodhound's hand, letting them pull away from him, their throat closed with total disgust._

_"I don't," Bloodhound almost snaps. Then they control themselves, trying to speak lower, sound more raspy. "I want you all to myself."_

_They dare to look him in the eye again, and are relieved to see him taking the bait, his face red, a stupid smile on his face._

_"Well alright. Lead the way."_

_Bloodhound stands up quickly, perhaps too quickly, but the man doesn't seem to question it._

_They walk as slowly as they dare through the hallways, painfully smiling at every person they come across, who all look pointedly at the man following him, perhaps exchanging knowing glances._

_It seems to take an eternity for them to finally reach the right exit of the complex, getting back to the door Bloodhound had entered in from  a different, roundabout way._

_They tug him towards the nearby woods, expecting Armann to be hiding somewhere in the snow, in the trees, or perhaps behind a big enough rock._

_"You know, you're pretty bold," the man says. "Someone tell you I was into guys? Some of these guys will clock ya, you know, for thinking they're a queer. Not that anything's really queer in the military, I mean, come on now. A bone's a bone. I'm not gay, by the way, just so you know, it's just, these women are tough. Don't like fuckin' nobody. Don't wanna get pregnant and be sent home, you know? So a guy gets a little desperate. Not saying you're ugly or nothing. In fact, you're really pretty for a dude..."_

_They try to ignore him, pulling him further and further into the woods._

_"Say, you wanna lay your coat down or do you think you could just blow me and then I could just blow you? It'll be fast, easy, relieve some tension. Whatdya say, brother? Let's make this easy?"_

_"Yeah. Let's."_

_Bloodhound's head turns slightly at the familiar voice, body full of relief._

_Armann dives out of a tree close to the man._

_His hands wrap around his throat._

_And he slams his head perfectly into a well-placed rock._

_The man is knocked unconscious, and most likely killed, immediately on impact._

_Just to make sure, Armann picks the rock up, holds it up high over him, and throws it down directly onto his head._

_His forehead is flattened into a red bloody pulp rather gruesomely, skull crushed, forcing his brain to pop out like a balloon, brain matter splattering onto the snow like a watermelon had been hurled onto concrete from twelve stories up._

_But Bloodhound, their eyes hardened by many grisly deaths over the years, barely reacts._

_Instead they throw their arms around Armann._

_"Thank you," they whisper._

_They kiss him hard on the mouth, feeling him surge back into the kiss, feeling a little winded as he pushes them back into a tree, fingers tangled in their hair, forgetting where they are and what they're doing for a moment, too happy and relieved that Bloodhound is ok to stop himself._

_But then he comes back to his senses and he reluctantly lets go of Bloodhound._

_"Sorry. Let's get going..."_

_Five minutes later, the man's body buried, they walk back to the IMC facility, their hands cut and bleeding from digging him an icy grave but shoved into their pockets to hide the fact._

_Bloodhound takes Armann back to the room full of bunk beds._

_"We'll lay low," Armann murmurs softly to their clan mate, who nods. "They'll think we perished on our own in the ring when the time runs out, and there's nowhere to go but here, in this building. Hopefully they start sending people home before that, and we can sneak onto one of those earlier ships. If worse comes to worse, I'll...I dunno, shoot myself in the leg. Say that I was attacked by one of those primitive tree huggers and need to be sent home for medical treatment."_

_"Sounds good," Bloodhound whispers. "And then where will we go?"_

_Armann looks quickly at the door._

_He then lurches forward and kisses the redhead quickly on the nose._

_"Anywhere we want, love. Remember when I told you, never give up hope, up on the mountain? Maybe we can find our parents. Maybe we can find everyone again."_

_Bloodhound, unable to resist, kisses him on the mouth again._

_It's amazing how natural that feels, how easily they take to showing Armann physical affection, or perhaps they are simply starved for physical contact after days of running and hiding and being so close to him, but so far, unable to touch him or speak to him at all._

_Soon after, others begin to file in, yawning and stretching, and they have to stop, but it is with slightly lighter hearts that they go to sleep, for the first time in a long time, in warm beds._

_The next morning, they have their first proper meal in a long time._

_A dry biscuit, a grungy grey porridge, and a cup of orange juice._

_They both wolf it down so fast, Bloodhound almost throws up, and Armann can't resist belching._

_He covers his mouth, but still tenses as another soldier comments, "Hungry, aren't you two? They running you on the late shift?"_

_But neither of them can help it._

_Bloodhound hasn't eaten a proper meal for months now, since the ring had terrified animals away from it, or killed them outright, and they were out of ration packets from their last stay at an IMC base._

_And the food kept in packets at the IMC bases is dry, crumbles easily, and had been stored in them for a very long time._

_The porridge, although bitter and tasting a little like snot, might as well be a fine 5 star consommé soup._

_The biscuit has more flavor than any 5 year old IMC nutripack ever could._

_And neither hunter has had orange juice since they lived outside of Valkana._

_"We almost blew that, didn't we?" Armann giggles in the bathroom._

_Bloodhound can't resist giggling too._

_They hold their hands over their mouths, trying not to make a sound, but the giggles won't stop. They are in a dangerous, precarious situation that could fall apart at any time, but they can't help it._

_Bloodhound never thought they would miss being inside one of these freezing little depressing gray boxes, but after months on the run, they might as well be a palace._

_After four days, it looks as though their plan may be working._

_They switch sleeping arrangements every day, and soldiers are constantly being reassigned to different bases, or are being sent out on patrol so often and for so long that they do not notice two faces that should not be among them, preferring instead to fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the blankets of their bunk beds. The two fugitives also take care never to look anyone in the eye for too long, always moving, always keeping busy._

_No one seems to notice the two men who went missing either, as Bloodhound and Armann fill their places. Apparently, due to the scheduling of patrols and constant redistribution of human resources, not too many people had the opportunity to really get to know anyone else here._

_Bloodhound and Armann only manage to stay close to one another by constantly sneaking into one another's patrols or making impromptu sleeping arrangements like Bloodhound sleeping in a closet outside of Armann's assigned bed room. There are just enough soldiers that their failure to arrive for duty or their strange sudden appearance in another squad is barely questioned._

_Instead, it is assumed that there was an error in the chain of command, which had been strained and understaffed for quite some time now, and which had lead to the use of the ring._

_Apparently, the IMC's forces were not quite coordinating properly with the Predators, who were not enjoying the bureaucratic task of maintaining a small army in an increasingly crowded area._

_Irritated and beginning to feel agitated, the director of operations, who directs both the Apex Predator squads and the supplemental IMC forces, begins to order an evacuation of troops._

_Although they aren't first on the list to go home, it looks as though the units of their area are third in line to be packed up and sent off planet._

_Bloodhound spends every night, wrapped in blankets they used to hate, dreaming of getting off this wretched planet and seeing their mother and female friends again._

_Being alone with Armann in peace, no longer surrounded by strange men and women who'd slit their throats if they had the chance, sleeping in a proper bed, eating proper food._

_Things are going well until the night just before their unit is due to pack up._

_Before Lieutenant Commander Arthur Wellmer arrives by shuttle to oversee the allocation of withdrawal resources._

* * *

 Bloodhound holds their knife firmly in their palm, crossing the knife over their heart.

They look up, through cracked eye pieces, at the setting sun. 

The sky is so dark, the wind beginning to chill. 

But they barely feel the difference in temperature. 

They do not watch sunsets or sunrises anymore.

They do not look at the clouds or the sky anymore, unless it is to check the weather, the time, or anything else related to work. 

There was a time when they found beauty in such simple things. 

But now, the beauty of the landscape and the wild order of nature are lost on them.

They wonder if Caustic is right about them.

If they are hopeless people, with purpose but without genuine human feelings. Without the capacity for depth, or for humanity anymore.  

Without true affection. Love.  

Are these worthless endeavors that do not last even a moment in a lifetime? A lifetime that is still only a fraction of a blink in the eye of the universe? 

But does it matter? 

Bloodhound tries to remember a time when they experienced happiness based on companionship. Off of camaraderie and mutual affection. 

At some point, these things had mattered a great deal to them.

But now, they struggle to come up with a time when-

_"What? Your religion have something against a little hot dog fencing?"_

Unbidden, a smile crosses their lips and a warm feeling stirs in their gut. 

What a silly thing to say. 

But Armann always said such silly things. 

Only...

Bloodhound realizes with a jolt of surprise that they'd involuntarily thought the name Armann when they'd meant to think Elliott. 

_Ah....that's what it felt like._

_All those years ago...I remembered that feeling, for just a moment._

_It feels..._

_Ah, it feels as though a weight has been lifted._

_As though the world has been lifted with it._

_And the inevitability of the universe does not matter, because an infinity could be stored in a finite moment of laughter. Of unforgettable joy._

They walk back towards the bunker Mirage was presumably still waiting in. 

_"But I think maybe, deep down, you just keep people at bay, and act as though they're all monsters, that they're all the same as the people who wronged you, because you're afraid to be attached to any of them again. You're afraid of growing close to someone again, and losing them, so it's easier to pretend they're all evil. People act untrustworthy when you don't want to trust them. They act unlovable when you're afraid of loving them."_

Their chest had twisted uncomfortably when he'd said that.

At the time, they'd thought it was out of anger, out of dislike for being so thoroughly misunderstood. 

But maybe...

They slide down one of the ramps leading down into the cool shade of the open air bunker, Elliott fast asleep in a corner. 

Maybe there was some merit to what he'd said. 

* * *

_Wellmer hasn't seen his son in over five years._

_Honestly, he'd been avoiding the boy._

_Wanting him to make it on his own, create a name for himself, without being constantly overshadowed by his father. Or have to live with the embarrassment of having a father go to work with him._

_How awkward is that?_

_Wellmer knew his son Roy needed his space, wanted to be his own man before he was the Commander's son._

_But he'd been maybe just a little relieved when they sent him in to "secure" the situation on Holthas._

_He doesn't see how two or three small indigenous natives with no experience or knowledge of advanced weaponry could be such a problem._

_Especially at this point, where their only hiding spaces, their slippery little rabbit holes, had effectively been filled with deadly cement._

_But nonetheless, he goes where he's sent, and it's on a dark Holthas day, with its weak watery light shining down on its dreary frozen world, that he arrives._

_He checks in with the secretary, who gives him the rundown of the sleeping quarters situation and the current teams on base._

_With a smile of approval, he sees that his son has been assigned to one of the teams he's currently directing._

_He decides to visit him, not wanting to pry into his affairs or assert himself in an awkward or embarrassing way, but needing to at least say hello and let him know that his mother writes him every day, and he needs to write back a least once._

Mirage nods at Bloodhound, looking dazed.

"I'm awake!" he insists.

"Come. We are re-positioning."

Bloodhound offers their hand to Mirage.

He looks shocked. 

"Uh...thanks."

He takes it, and they pull him up.

"You are awfully presumptuous for a man who knows very little," the masked hunter says, with a hint of humor. "But even a monkey banging on a holo pad could write poetry, eventually." 

"Uh....thanks for the compliment? I think?" 

Bloodhound nods. 

"I am sorry for my rudeness earlier. You were wrong about most of your assertions. But you have the right to make them, and they came from a place of caring." 

"Oh....thanks...again?"

"Don't mention it." 

Mirage grins.

"I do want to say I'm sorry for making assumptions, though. That's me, you know, opening my big fat mouth and blurting out whatever I'm thinking at any given time. You're right, I don't know you well enough to do that." 

No, he doesn't. 

But Bloodhound thinks that although he'd been off the mark, there had been a glimmer of truth in there somewhere. 

"Come with me," they say, their voice suddenly cooler than it was before. Mirage looks up with some trepidation. "And I will tell you what happened to Armann." 

* * *

_Wellmer has the native beaten with an inch of his life._

_He lies, almost dying, on the floor of the freezing cell they'd left him in._

_In just a few minutes, he'll send in Elden to patch him up again, healing him back to picture perfect health, so he can endure it all over again._

_He has no idea how one of the very natives they had been attempting to purge had managed to sneak into their ranks, but he will find out._

_And he will find out where the other one is hiding._

_This one might be tough, but everyone cracks eventually._

_And besides, even if this one dies before he says anything, at the very least, they have this one now._

_He'll have it beaten in broad daylight._

_The natives always stick together, like rats, like cockroaches._

_It'll see its friend and come running, eventually._

_He knows it will._

_In the mean time..._

_His fist clenches, fingernails digging into his palm._

_He knows his son is dead. Must be. Has to be._

_And he will deal with that grief, in his own time._

_When the job is done._

_But he at least has someone, some_ thing,  _to take his rage out on in the privacy of a cell, on a planet full of military personnel with a don't ask, don't tell policy._

"We almost escaped together," Bloodhound says. "Almost made it home. Almost survived together. Maybe if he'd survived, I wouldn't be here. Maybe you wouldn't be here either."

Mirage shivers at the implication. 

"Well...no offense, but I'm glad you're here."

He wonders if that was a stupid thing to say.

But Bloodhound takes it in stride, perhaps accepting that he's full of stupid things to say. 

"Perhaps it was fate," they say sadly. "Perhaps...my people were not meant to survive. And perhaps...Armann's fate was never to leave Holthas. I do not know. I will never know, I suspect." 

Mirage says nothing, merely following Bloodhound across Artillery, letting them speak at their own pace.

And they do, speaking again some moments later. 

"I never got to tell him goodbye." 

_It is Bloodhound's turn with the prisoner._

_They fall to their knees, wrapping their arms around his neck, pulling his swollen, bruised face into their chest, rocking back and forth, trying not to cry._

_It kills them inside to know what they are doing to him._

_What they will continue to do to him, while waiting for Bloodhound to reveal themselves._

_"I will tell them. I will confess tomorrow," they whisper._

_Immediately, Armann stiffens in their arms, leaning back. "Don't you dare," he growls. "This is all for you. You can't give in. You can't. You can still escape, you can still get off this miserable rock. Don't give in. It's what they want."_

_"I'm never going to escape, Armann. They know. They may already suspect, I-I don't look anything like the guy I'm impersonating. They'll find me out eventually, and-and then they'll kill us both. Maybe it is our time, Armann. Maybe this is how the Allfather-"_

_"Screw the Allfather," Armann hisses. "It is not over for you. You can't give up. Not for me. Do you hear me, Atli? I will not be the cause of your destruction, I will_  not.  _Please. Please don't do this. Get out while you can. Leave me behind."_

_"I'd sooner die," Bloodhound says._

_"That's what I was afraid you'd say," Armann sighs. "Why do you have to be so fucking stubborn? Don't you understand what is at stake here? It isn't just my life, or your life, it isn't just about us. It isn't about what we want. You  have to survive, do you understand? You have to bear witness. You have to be the one who tells others what happened here. What they made us do. What we had to do. They're lying about us. They're calling us primitives and savages and terrorists. They say we were unreasonable and deserved everything that has happened to us. You must survive. You must tell them the truth. Do you understand, Bloodhound? Please understand. This isn't just about us."_

_Tears begin to slide down Bloodhound's cheeks._

_Armann, hands tied behind his back, looks stricken, as though he wants nothing more than to wipe them away._

_But he can't, and all he can do is watch._

_"I'm sorry," he says, his voice cracking, so assertive and passionate before, now suddenly deflated. He sounds like a child again, a teenager with a bratty high-pitched voice and a cowardly nature. "I'm so sorry, Bloodhound. I wish it didn't happen this way. You have so much to bear on your own. I wish I could be there to bear it with you. To shoulder some of the pain with you. But this is how it is. There's no fighting it, no getting around it. You're going to have to leave me here."_

_Bloodhound's hands are like heaven on his hurting face. They're so gentle. He can feel their affection in their touch, their slow tracing of his face, as though they are a blind person trying to see him clearly one last time._

_"I can't. I can't," they say._

_"You must. Promise me, Bloodhound, Atli, that when they tell you to leave, that when they begin to send their ships away, you'll leave and never look back."_

_"I'll release you. I'll kill someone else, you can take their place-"_

_"They know my face."_

_"Then I'll kill every single fucking person in this building," Bloodhound rasps. "And steal one of their ships and fly it out of here."_

_Armann shivers, an unexpected jolt that almost feels like arousal jumping through his lower stomach. At a time like this...well no one ever accused the human body of being logical."That...won't work. They'd shoot you down before we even  made it a light year away."_

_"It would be a hell of a way to die, though. Almost romantic."_

_"It would be, wouldn't it?"_

_"You're the one who said to always have hope. To always cling to life, because you never know where it will take you. Why are you so willing to lay down your life now?" Bloodhound's voice rises in panic, in anger, in desperation._

_"Because my life matters less to me than yours," Armann shout-whispers, trying to keep his voice down so the guards won't hear, but also trying to make Bloodhound understand. "Because I got caught, and you didn't, and you're not going down with me. Because I love you."_

_Bloodhound closes their eyes._

_They lean their forehead against his._

_He leans back into them, feeling them trembling._

_They wait, feeling another one of those timeless human moments, stretched out for infinity._

_"You're going to have to let me go," Armann whispers._

_"Never."_

_"We all die someday, Atli."_

_"Not today. Not tomorrow. Sometime far in the future, when we're both old and gray and you start balding like your dad."_

_"Hey, you don't know that I'd start balding like my dad."_

_"I'll still love you when you're old and bald, Armann."_

_"I'm not going to go bald!"_

_They open their eyes at the same time and smile at one another, two children grinning at a private joke that the adults won't understand again._

_But then the reality of their situation sinks in again, and Bloodhound looks solemn, tears dried on their face, but sorrow still in their eyes._

_"You said you'd always be with me."_

_"I did. And I_ will _always be with you. Do you hear me, kid? Even though you can't see the stars, they are always there. Can you remember that for me? Can you say it after me? Even though you can't see the stars-"_

Mirage crosses the zipline to the non-rigged door to Caustic's little house of horrors. 

He enters the door and is immediately chastised by Caustic for distracting him with his noise. 

They begin to argue ferociously over who's noisier, smellier, and more thick headed.

But Bloodhound does not intervene this time.

They wait outside in the darkness. They do not come inside for a long time, so long that Mirage and Caustic, finally done arguing, moodily choose opposite sides of the room to sleep on, and are long asleep by the time they do. 

In that time, they are not doing anything in particular, not watching for enemies or checking traps. 

All they're doing is looking up at the stars in the sky.

_"I'll watch over you, always. Look up, and you'll see me. And even if you can't, remember I'm still there. Please. Bloodhound. You have to live. You have to live, because no one else will remember me, will remember us. Don't forget me, please. Don't forget how much I love you, and don't forget to love yourself, for me."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: 
> 
> \- Bloodhound looks androgynous in this fic, hence the gender "confusion" on the part of those who see them. They are not AFAB or AMAB in this fic because it's not super important, tbh, that's up to you. 
> 
> \- Bloodhound's backstory is not over. Please be prepared. 
> 
> \- Caustic's speech was so fun to write, that edgy fucking nihilist. I love him. I always write him so edgy...but then again he literally has a line where he tells you, his own team mate, that the ring causes excruciating death to those who touch it...why don't you go stand in it? he's a dick. i love him, but GOD, caustic. what did i ever do to you???


	23. ? People Remaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, this bitch writes some actual miragehound. 
> 
> Warning: there is a kind of graphic hanging in this chapter...and I forgot to warn you about all the other horribly graphic deaths in other chapters so.....yeah, I guess I really don't warn ya'll about anything?
> 
> My bad. 
> 
> Warning: kinda graphic hanging. It's kind of tame, I think, compared to other things I've done, but...my sense of what's tame is kind of far over most people's limit of acceptable, so. whoops.

"You guys wanna play charades?" 

Caustic stands up and walks away. 

"Oh I know this one! You're Marcus Witt!" 

Elliott settles in, as comfortable as he can get in the corner of their little hideaway. 

He would be lying if he said he wasn't bored out of his mind.

They had only just hit the 50 hour mark, and there were still ten hours left before the ring started to creep in even faster than before.

Mirage had been feeling on edge for the first hour or two, excited at how far they'd come, how close they were to winning, but the excitement had worn off. 

Now he sits glumly on his ass, fiddling with his Peacekeeper, with nothing to do but occasionally annoy Caustic, who's almost like a caged rat, pacing back and forward, bald forehead bent over in thought. 

Mirage has the bizarre urge to rub it with his forearm to see if it shines bright enough for him to see his own face, like a cartoon. 

He hasn't seen a mirror in about fifty hours. 

"Hey, Bloodhound?"

The hunter looks over. They had been deep in thought for some time now, sitting a level higher than him, staring through the glass door. 

"How's my hair look?"

They tilt their head.

"It looks fine."

"You sure? I feel like almost dying three times has made it lose some of its luster...I don't want them to take a photo of me for the newspapers or something and have it be me with horrible hair. Will totally kill my victory buzz."

"It looks...messy, but intentionally?" Bloodhound offers. 

"...I can live with that," Mirage says with a little shrug. He flashes them a winning smile, but they are already looking away.

Mirage feels a little disappointed, but figures they're just thinking hard.

About the game, or perhaps other things...

His own mind turns to what Bloodhound had told them before they had met up with Caustic in this building, about how Armann had died. 

_Days had passed since Bloodhound had been able to see Armann._

_They had tried._

_Tried sounding angry and cocky, asking if it was their turn with the prisoner yet, but the guards said he was being interrogated only by Wellmer right now, and wasn't to be disturbed._

_Bloodhound spends those agonizing nights terrified of what could be happening to their friend, and paranoid that any moment they would be dragged out and executed with him._

_But at least the terrible anticipation would be over._

_At least they would finally be free, together._

_And they wouldn't  have to fulfill their promise to Armann._

_On the fourth day, Wellmer calls for a unit meeting, and Bloodhound feels their heart sink in their chest._

_They walk out into the weak sunlight, shivering in the cold, seeing others around them also shaking, looking irritable._

_"Friends, comrades, our time on this planet has come to an end," the Lieutenant Commander booms. He speaks without a microphone, his voice deep and loud enough to penetrate the still, freezing air, and make itself heard through out the crowd assembled to hear him. He makes a rather dignified figure standing behind his pulpit on a raised wooden platform, dressed in full uniform, iron gray hair slicked back neatly and immaculately. He stands beside a nine foot tall wooden pole that Bloodhound doesn't remember seeing there before, with a thick wooden arm extending out over the crowd just a little. "Our duty has been fulfilled."_

_A confused murmur ripples through the crowd._

_But they don't say anything to the Commander directly, perhaps too afraid, not wanting to speak out of turn._

_"You are wondering about the last confirmed native here, of course," the Commander says coolly. "Well, rest assured, they will die. But we do not need to be here to see it. The ring will be closed and monitored from space for twenty four hours after our forces have been withdrawn. The last native will be caught in the ring eventually. It's a shame we could not execute them ourselves, or capture them for trial, but unfortunately we have spent too much time and too many resources trying to ferret them out."_

_Another murmur ripples through the crowd. People turn to one another, looking concerned, their eyes nervously flickering from one another to the Commander._

_"You worry, rightly, that the last one may be hiding among us, as one did. Well, I have a solution for that as well."_

_He nods and gestures behind his platform._

_Bloodhound keeps their face perfectly blank as two of the Commander's grunts pull Armann out from the building behind the platform. They hold him by the arms, as he clearly cannot stand on his own. One of his legs is clearly injured, hanging limply and grotesquely as they drag him, and he has an ugly purple scar that runs horizontally across his face, appearing as though he had been slashed with a knife or a jagged piece of glass. He doesn't look up, and perhaps that's a good thing, for Bloodhound isn't sure if they would be able to stand it if he looked up and met their eyes._

_"As you all know, this one was found infiltrating our ranks, most likely trying to escape. He has...regrettably refused to tell us who his other operative is impersonating, and we have sent out a message to all other units on the planet, as well as coordinating our  own efforts to find the mole. However, he does have one purpose."_

_Wellmer makes another gesture, and Bloodhound recognizes the woman they had met earlier, the one with glasses from the common room._

_She is carrying a long, winded up rope in both hands, struggling with the weight of it._

_"Go ahead, please help her with that..."_

_Bloodhound feels their heart skip a beat as they begin to tie the rope around the wooden arm._

_"I do not know if it is our unit the other native has infiltrated, or if they have even infiltrated us at all. Quite possibly, they are hiding within one of our facilities, and enduring the ring only by coming in and out of it. But I do have a suspicion that these natives always stick together. And this native serves no purpose to us anymore."_

_The end of the rope is tied into a noose._

_Bloodhound's fingers are trembling so hard they're afraid they will be found out._

_They shove their hands into their pockets, trying to resist the urge to vomit._

_This can't be happening..._

_"If the other terrorist is among us now... know this. Death in the ring is painful. Excruciating. Reveal yourself now, and you can join your friend. And die painlessly, either here or on another planet, after you receive a fair trial and a chance to make one last public statement. You will receive more dignity in your death than you ever offered those you mercilessly slaughtered without reason. Expose yourself now, and do not let your comrade die alone."_

_He pauses._

_Every person in the crowd turns nervously, looking at one another._

_Bloodhound feels their stomach tighten, their organs gurgling anxiously, heart beating hard in their ears, in their throat, feeling as though they will suddenly sense that they are an imposter._

_They dare to look up at Armann._

_But Armann isn't looking up._

_And he is most likely afraid to see Bloodhound in the crowd, afraid that his emotions will show too clearly on his face and reveal who the last remaining survivor is._

_He stubbornly looks down at the ground, the Commander staring intently at his face._

_But he doesn't give anything away._

_And Bloodhound, although part of them longs to die here and now, with Armann, so they will not have to continue on without him, is frozen._

_They want to go to him, to hug him, kiss him, even if it means losing their life, but they remember their promise._

_They cannot let his memory die._

_Even if it means having to live with this painful one forever._

_They drag a stool out, and force Armann onto it._

_He hisses, barely able to stand, his injured leg wobbling, the other one trembling from the strain._

_Two men have to hold him upright as they tighten the noose around his neck, one having to support his injured legs, the other fitting the rope._

_Now he can't seem to resist blearily looking about, eyes darting around quickly, desperate for an escape route that doesn't exist._

_Their eyes flicker to Bloodhound's._

_But they flicker just as quickly away._

_Bloodhound wants him to look at them._

_Wants to be found out, so they can join him up there, and be rid of this nightmarish planet, and this nightmarish universe, forever._

_"I guess loyalty doesn't run very deeply in your people after all," the Commander says dryly. "Perhaps you were merely acquaintances. Nonetheless, the body will remain here, in public view, until we leave. Anyone caught attempting to free it will be arrested and assumed guilty until proven otherwise. In the meantime, we will begin the withdrawal process tomorrow. Each and every one of you will have your identities confirmed before boarding, no exceptions. If the other native is among us, they will join their friend. If they aren't, then as our ships leave, they will be trapped in the ring, and eventually, slowly, killed."_

_He pauses. Then slowly, thoughtfully, he says, "We thought about removing the ring altogether. I mean, what person could survive on this planet alone? And even if they could, can you imagine knowing you are the last of your kind? Doomed to live the rest of your life, exiled to this planet, with nothing but the corpses of your fallen brethren to keep you company in this harsh, cruel, and decidedly unfriendly environment? If they chose to reveal themselves now, it would be a mercy killing. A welcome end to a hard life filled with loneliness, fear, and the crushing inevitability of a miserable death."_

_He pauses, looking around._

_Armann stands on shaking legs on the stool._

_Bloodhound wants so badly to run out to him._

_Armann's so close to him._

_He's hurt, he looks scared, like the sick scrawny teenage boy who's scared of grimmur, scared of the dark, scared of setting a fire, scared of going to pee in the woods alone._

_He's a sensitive boy, at heart, and Bloodhound had always loved that about him, loved how it made him kind rather than cruel, eventually, once he got over the awkward teenage years._

_"Very well," the Commander says reluctantly. "Perhaps these natives are made of stronger, more callous stuff than I would've guessed. Oh well."_

_Armann can't help it._

_As the Commander gives the order, and one of his men approaches the stool, his eyes helplessly, irresistibly are drawn to Bloodhound's._

_His mouth is tightly shut, his face pale, his hands clenched tightly together before him, now being bound with metal wires._

_Every muscle in Bloodhound's body screams out to save him, do something, anything, cause a diversion, start a fight, loudly declare that he is the last native and will go to trial if they let Armann come with them. Let them live, just for one more day._

_But their mouth won't move._

_Their brain stubbornly refuses to allow them to do anything but stare mutely, expressionlessly forward as a man kicks the stool out from under Armann._

_And he hangs, body twitching, neck not breaking immediately, merely being squeezed and choked by the tightness of the rope, eyes popping with pain and panic._

_He twitches, legs kicking, whole body shaking and jerking, for several minutes._

_Bloodhound feels bile rising in their throat, feels so helpless they cannot stand it._

_They want to leave, want to run away, close their eyes, do whatever they can in order to not stare at Armann's body, hanging by the neck they had once kissed, run their fingers over, laid their head against._

_But they can't, because if they do, the Commander will know. Everyone will._

_So they are forced to stand, waiting with everyone else, for Armann to slowly, painfully suffocate, body finally going still._

_And they will never forget it, not as long as they live._

_Never forget seeing someone they loved die right in front of them, while they do nothing._

"I said I don't leave people behind," Bloodhound had said to him. "But I let him die. I did nothing. And when the crowd left, and everyone went to bed, I still did nothing. I left him there, Elliott. I let his body hang there, a reminder to all, that our lives meant nothing. And then I flew away in a ship, and it was still hanging there. And if I were to ever go back, it would still be there." 

Elliott shivers at the thought. 

He hadn't known what to say.

What do you say to something like that?

Sorry?

That's horrible?

He couldn't say anything, and Bloodhound had stopped talking anyway.

Now they stare out at the night sky, their legs crossed, back leaning against the wall.

Elliott walks up to them now, not knowing what he can do, but wanting to do something.

"I'm going to find my mom, after all this is over," he says. "Going to do what you suggested. Try and explain myself."

Bloodhound looks at him as he plops down beside them. 

"I am glad to hear it," they say. 

"And...I don't know if Warren is...ok. But I need to explain it to him too. I want to ask for his forgiveness. But if he doesn't want to give it, I'll understand." 

Bloodhound sighs, sounding weary through the mask. 

"You'd be surprised. If he's been hurting as much as you, perhaps you both need to forgive you." 

"Heh. Sounds like something he would say," Elliott says with a grin. "You know, Warren was always such a nice kid. He couldn't stand seeing people being treated unfairly though. He once refused to come out from under his desk at school in first grade because another boy was forced to sit in the timeout corner as a punishment for something he didn't do? Mama was so proud she told off the principal for discouraging civil disobedience and critical thinking. He never had an unkind word to say to anyone, but he always gave such elaborate 'why you should be kind to people' speeches to bullies. Almost got his ass kicked, several times. But that's when it's a good thing to have so many brothers. We might've fought a lot, but we had each other's backs. We always swore we would." 

Elliott's voice trails off for a moment. 

He bites his lip. 

"Guess things are different now. Guess things have to change, for better or for worse. Liam isn't around to kick my ass or force me to apologize to the family anymore. Mom isn't either. God, I hope I can find her. I hope I can find Warren. And I'll pray to anyone, even the Allfather, to find Talos alive." 

Bloodhound nods. 

"Worthy goals, Elliott. The money we receive for winning the Game is considerable. With conservative spending, you could travel the galaxy for years. And Apex sponsors will pay for your in between games expenses if you're popular enough." 

Elliott grins.

"You think I'll be popular?"

Bloodhound nudges him lightly in the leg with their right hand. 

"Handsome man like you? Girls and women who enjoy this sport will love you. Messy hair or not." 

"What? You said it didn't look bad!"

"It doesn't. Not really."

Elliott gapes at them.

He begins to run his fingers through his hair, then has an idea. 

He turns on his Holo emitters.

"Go bamboozle them."

A decoy appears and runs into a wall, stopping to flex and smile charmingly at no one. 

Mirage walks around it, studying its hair.

"It...it doesn't look great," he admits. "But it's not bad!" 

Bloodhound laughs.

It's a light, airy sound, and it stops much too soon for Elliott's taste, but it is a laugh nonetheless. 

"Only you would check your own hair using a decoy," they say, their voice rimmed with amusement. 

"I'm a genius. A high school dropout genius. They'll write books about me one day. A model, a poet, and a warrior, all wrapped in one good looking package." 

"I'll agree with one of those things," Bloodhound says warmly.

Elliott's eyes widen. 

"Which one?" he demands. 

"You can figure it out," the hunter says smoothly, teasingly. "You are a genius, after all."

Elliott shakes his head in disbelief, with mock disappointment, but his eyes light up with joy, happy to hear Bloodhound's sad, solemn voice sound cheerful. 

"Well based off of all previous evidence, you think I'm just a pretty face," the holographic trickster suggests, putting on a faux scientific tone. "But perhaps I can get you to admit I'm not a half bad warrior too?" 

"How many times have I saved you in the ring?"

"Well I saved you once. That should count for a lot. It's not about the quantity, it's about the quality. Saving someone even once counts for a lot, doesn't it?"

Bloodhound shakes their head, but their voice is still warm as they reply, "It does. But I'm still counting." 

"I still have time to make it up to you," Elliott insists. "I may not be able to save you as many times as you've saved me. But you just wait, it'll be a doozy. It'll be so big, so heroic, it'll make up for all the other times. Count on it." 

"I want to, but I'm not a gambler-"

"You believe in fate, though. And I'm telling you, Hound, it's fate that we were on the same team. We're going to win, no matter what happens. And it's fate that we..." but Elliott trails off awkwardly, suddenly feeling weird saying what he'd been about to say, a little heat flushing through his cheeks. "Eh...fate that we...win." 

Bloodhound surely noticed the sudden turnaround, but they say nothing about it, only nodding. 

Elliott smiles to himself. 

When they win...

"Bloodhound?"

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do with your money? When you win?"

"I...am still searching for the remnants of my clan. They had been spread out far and wide, some taken on as domestic servants, others as slaves, some achieving freedom, but perishing under anonymous identities. I...do not believe any of them have survived. But I think perhaps...perhaps I could stand to be more...hopeful." 

Their hands grip their knees. 

"Is it...is it possible your parents are...still alive?" Elliott asks tentatively. 

Bloodhound flinches ever so slightly, as though expecting the question, but still unable to prepare themselves adequately for it. 

"No. My father was worked to death in the mines of Astoria. His medical records are on file, and his death was confirmed by a coroner only a year after we were sent to Holthas. My mother refused, to the very end, to agree to the IMC's demands. She died on Agamemnon, a small jungle planet full of toxic plants and animals, rather than give up. I do not know exactly what happened there, only that most of the women of our clan refused to give in. The planet is empty of human life now. I found many graves, one of which bore my mother's name. Those who did choose to leave served their masters for many years, but ultimately many joined the Frontier militia in acts of rebellion...those that I know of who chose that option would die in the border skirmishes of Iago, which happened about seven years ago." 

Bloodhound's voice does strange things to Elliott's heart, twisting it up at times, weighing it down with darkness and pain, yet at the same time, lifting it up and holding it up to to the light, casting aside shadows like a candle in the night. 

Now it fills his chest with admiration, with a sensitive and thoughtful nobility that arises only from tragedy and misfortune. 

"I am proud of them. All of them. Those who died, those who gave in, and chose life, and those who ultimately chose to die for a cause. I am proud to be related to them. Proud to still be alive. Proud to have survived. I...hope that I can find other survivors." 

"I hope you can too," Elliott says. "I...good luck. In finding them, I mean. After all of this is over." 

Bloodhound's hand reaches out to grasp his shoulder firmly.

He feels something warm tingling through his chest, doing weird things to his heart and lower body. 

"Good luck finding what you're looking for, Elliott." 

"Well I'm no tracker like you, but I'll do my best," he jokes.

Bloodhound squeezes his shoulder even tighter, and the pressure feels so nice, Elliott can't help but relax underneath their palm. 

"Even trackers like me can get lost, sometimes." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: 
> 
> \- I will be exploring how Bloodhound made and developed their tracking technology. But there will be a LOT of warnings for that backstory, because it isn't pretty. It might...possibly change the rating too. We'll see. I'm not sure. 
> 
> \- Mirage's mom is a lot closer than he would've guessed, who knew? I did. 
> 
> \- Caustic is like sitting on the other side of the room thinking wtf, are those two flirting? the incel. poor guy. when they release octane, i swear, i'll write some caustic love for anyone who's horny for caustic. all five people. but in the mean time, i need to write more miragehound porn. i wanna write afab miragehound porn. more on that later. 
> 
> \- ALSO I read all of your comments, die inside, and adore them, so thank you. Can't respond to all of them just because I feel weird leaving comments on my own fanfics, but rest assured, I'm so happy every time you guys leave comments! Makes my day, keeps me chugging through the dreary doldrums of life.


	24. Three Squads Remaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: sexual assault. 
> 
> It's not graphic, and won't get graphic, but it is there. Tread carefully, friends.

_Even though you can't see the stars._

_Even though you can't see the stars._

_Even though you can't see the stars._

_The words haunt Bloodhound's every step._

_Their heart hurts._

_They spent the entire night awake, re-living that moment, over and over again, watching Armann struggle to breathe._

_Choking, dying slowly, until his neck finally snapped._

_Bloodhound hasn't left the facility since they'd been called out to that horrible assembly._

_They can't, because Armann's body is still hanging there._

_If they have to see it again, they will cry. Scream. Begin to vomit._

_And perhaps it would be best._

_Because containing their emotions is becoming harder and harder, with each passing second._

_And keeping a straight face is agony, pure agony, when their heart is roiling with waves of mourning and fury and despair._

_They are surrounded by people, yet they are so utterly alone._

_Every time they turn a corner, they think about Armann, bounding up to them, concernedly asking them if they've eaten yet, if they'd slept well, if they want to come for a walk with him._

_Every time they go to the bathroom, they think of Armann laughing, think of him in the stall beside theirs, his foot tapping on the other side, full of restless energy._

_And at night, when they curl up on their side in their bunk bed, someone snoring over their head, they  think of lying beside him in a cave on a mountain top. Bodies as close to one another as they can manage, foreheads touching, his breath warm against their face._

_The memories are happy, and that's why they hurt so much._

_Because they will only ever be memories now._

_The body that had held them, had kept them warm, had followed them into battles with nature, with the Predators, had kept them physically and emotionally safe in a world so hostile to their very existence is hanging from a post, devoid of the soul they had once loved so much._

_They struggle with the desire to confess every time they pass by a window that faces the square where Armann had been hung._

_Every nightmare they have, of Armann being ripped apart by grimmur, in that pass, so long ago, dying with his father, every dream in which Armann is still alive, holding their hand and stroking their face as they hide from soldiers, makes them want to give themselves up._

_Follow Armann wherever it is he went._

_People are beginning to evacuate, and tomorrow is the day they check Bloodhound's unit._

_They will be discovered._

_The night before their squad is assigned to be checked and cleared for withdrawal, Bloodhound feels numb rather than terrified._

_So this is it._

_They will be discovered trying to get onto a ship they do not belong on._

_They will be brought out to the square._

_Probably be given a speech similar to Armann's._

_And they will join him at the gallows, to be hung or perhaps shot to death._

_At least they will not have to face trial._

_If they must die at the hands of the IMC, it might as well be here, where he died._

_And perhaps as they die, they will be able to look at Armann and he will be the last thing they see._

_And if the afterlife exists, and they go to the same place he does, then perhaps he will be the first thing they see on the other side..._

_Bloodhound's  heart, still aching, is struck with a searing blow of emotions too powerful to contain._

_They hurry into the nearest closet, clutching their hand over their chest._

_They lurch against a storage shelf, feeling sick, physically and emotionally, wanting to throw up, the bodies of all of the family and friends they have been forced to bury swimming before their eyes._

_They swallow hard, trying to push down the bile._

_And then jump in shock and panic as someone squeezes in behind them._

_"Well hello there."_

_Bloodhound flips on the light._

_A tall older man with thick gray sideburns, a harsh and weathered face, and a sturdy build stands  before them. He has the appearance of a man who had been powerfully built in his youth, but had begun to shrivel over and put on some weight as he'd begun to age. Although he is far from obese, he has something of a beer belly, which pokes Bloodhound uncomfortably as he stands much too close to them._

_"Looking for something?"_

_"No," Bloodhound murmurs, reaching for the door, trying to skirt around him._

_But the man seizes them by the shoulder._

_"Now, now, where are you going so fast? Don't you want to stay and chat?" the man leers._

_Bloodhound jabs him hard in the stomach with their fingers outstretched._

_The man gasps, bending over, as Bloodhound's other hand firmly grasps the door knob._

_"Stop! I know who you are, native!"_

_Bloodhound freezes._

_Their hand stops, uncertainly gripping the cold metal of the knob._

_The man staggers a little, but straightens up as he bears down on Bloodhound, looking annoyed._

_"I saw your face the moment your little friend died. I knew it was you. You're terrible at containing your emotions, you know that? Your face reveals everything to anyone with half a brain. Luckily for you, most of these jarheads don't even have a quarter of one."_

_Bloodhound lets go of the knob completely, looking up at the man, entire body on edge from their close proximity._

_"What do you want?" they whisper._

_"You're smart enough to at least figure out I want something," the man laughs. "Good, good. We can work together."_

_"Why would you want to work with me?"_

_"Because I'm just a merchant, really. I'm here with my own ship, my own crew. She's_ my _ship, but she was built with IMC funding for interstellar trade and cargo transport. We were in the vicinity and were required by our exclusive IMC contract to report in. Wasn't too happy about that. A whole supply of beets and radishes and carrots went bad just because a couple of Apex Predators couldn't keep a bunch of natives in line. No offense."_

_A muscle in Bloodhound's jaw twitches, but they have been insulted so many ways, indirectly, by so many people, that the tone of his voice doesn't rankle them too much._

_"But my point is...I have no truck with you, or your people. In fact, I think the whole thing was an over reaction. Hunting people down like that just because they wouldn't leave their home? The IMC doesn't have the right to do that. Crazy times we live in, absolutely crazy. So busy trying to conquer space we forgot where we came from. That shit would've never flown on Earth Prime, but because we're so far away..."_

_"Is there a point to any of this?" Bloodhound hisses. "What do you want from me?"_

_"Come with me," the man says. "We'll take you onto our ship. Let you stay for a while. Be a part of the crew. Maybe learn a thing or two. We leave tomorrow, I can get you cleared with a fake name, a fake identity. You can start all over again."_

_Bloodhound lets out a heavy exhale._

_"How do I know this isn't a trick of some kind? How do I know you aren't intending on selling me into slavery or even selling me out to the IMC further down the road? How do I know I can trust you?"_

_"You don't," the man admits. "But what other choice do you have? Staying here? Dying in the ring? Or even, being discovered tomorrow and executed? I won't lie to you, kid, I make this offer knowing you don't really have much of a choice. You can be discovered, and die here, or you can come with me and live. Granted, after everything you've been through, maybe dying sounds attractive. But you're the last survivor out of everyone from your tribe, clan, whatever. I would think you value your life a little too much to let your own feelings get in the way, am I right?"_

_Here is Bloodhound's salvation, pressed up against them in a broom closet._

_And yet they don't feel saved._

_They feel trapped._

_"... What do you want with me?" Bloodhound whispers. They lean back, but the man follows them, pressing their back into the door. They wince at his moist breath on their face. "I'm no use to you. I don't know much about IMC technology. I know you don't need me for anything like that. So what is it you truly want from me?"_

_The big man smiles._

_He bears down on them, and to their horror, one hand falls to their waist._

_The other touches his palm to the side of their neck, stroking the skin of their throat with his thumb. He then turns his hand, rubbing underneath their jaw._

_"You're so beautiful," the man says, his voice sending shivers of disgust trembling through Bloodhound's spine, waves of anger and loathing through out their entire body. "I'd hate to see them snap this pretty neck of yours, I really would."_

Bloodhound jerks awake. 

The moon is high in the sky, its light casting a pearly glow on the floor beneath them.

Caustic is asleep, a lump of yellow all the way across the room, head resting on his notepad.

Mirage is also asleep, on the landing beneath them, his neck bent uncomfortably against the wall in a way he will surely feel in the morning.

Neither of them make a sound or even stir as Bloodhound watches them, feeling their heart fluttering unnaturally loud in the darkness. 

They haven't thought of Captain Semaine in a long time. 

Had tried to block him out, and mostly succeeded except for those rare times when they were alone, and drinking, and they'd almost feel the ghost of his hands on their hips, and they'd shudder, and drink enough to make feeling anything at all difficult. 

_"...I..."_

_"Choose, kid. Life or death. The only way you're getting off this planet is with me."_

_They almost tell him to fuck himself._

_To keep his fucking hands to himself, they'd sooner report themselves right now to Wellmer._

_Be hung up and flash him a defiant glare right before they kicked the stool out from under their knees._

_But then Armann's voice echoes in their head:_

Promise you'll leave and never look back. 

_And they remember what he'd said, the last time they'd truly spoken, what feels like a lifetime ago but was only days ago:_

You have to live. You have to live, because no one else will remember me, will remember us. Don't forget me, please. 

_If they stay here, die with him, who will remember him?_

_How much he loved Bloodhound?_

_How much he loved being alive?_

_How much he loved, and lived, every day, whether he was feeling grouchy or cheerful, whether he was laughing or yelling angrily, whether he felt annoyed by Bloodhound's obstinacy, or charmed by it?_

_How much he loved his family, cried for his father and mother, carrying injured and sick members across miles of frozen tundra?_

_How much he loved to hold Bloodhound close when all hope seemed lost, to remind them that they were still here, together?_

_All of these things would be lost if Bloodhound died with him._

_And even though it is painful, going forward, continuing on long after all others are gone, they know what they must do, even though their heart feels as though it will tear itself to pieces in their chest._

_"Very well. I will come with you."_

_The man smiles broadly. He claps Bloodhound on the shoulder, almost like a big rowdy brother._

_"And you'll work for me, and only me, for at least ten years. At least until you've paid off your debt to me, for saving your life. Maybe even longer, if I feel like it. But we'll sort all that out later, I'm sure."_

_He lets go of the hunter, and they breathe a sigh of relief._

_They turn to twist the knob and let themselves out, but feel his thick hand on their wrist again._

_They look back at him, trepidation in their eyes._

_"How about we seal the deal with a kiss? Just a little trial run. Little...introduction to one another."_

_Bloodhound wants nothing more than to rip his tongue out of his mouth and crush it under their foot._

_They want to stab him in the eyes with their fingers and twist his eyeballs out of his skull._

_But that won't get them off this planet._

_And they need to get off of this planet._

_Bloodhound closes their eyes._

_They lean forward just a fraction of an inch._

_And then flinch, their stomach jolting with displeasure, as the man responds forcefully, with much more enthusiasm than his partner, forcing their mouth open with his own, tongue invasive, thick, slippery, feeling predatory and wrong. It makes them more than uncomfortable as it flicks against the roof of their mouth, probing at their cheeks, licking at their teeth like an animal._

_Bloodhound feels sick, wanting to throttle him, unable to help thinking of Armann and how much they'd rather be kissing him. He was such a gentle kisser, so patient, cooperative, eager to allow his partner to decide the tempo._

_This man just expects them to submit to his every whim, and they can tell, feel their stomach flipping as his hands rather forcefully take a hold of their hips, pulling their bodies against one another, as close as they can be._

_But even though they want to break his fingers and wrists and maybe a few ribs, they force themselves to stand still._

_Because they need to leave. Need to get out._

_Need to live for Armann, hanging outside in the weak, watery daylight, who would never leave this planet._

_A tear slides down their face._

_The man doesn't notice._

Bloodhound suddenly feels the need to remove their mask. 

They feel most comfortable hiding their face, not because of how they look, or because they are hiding their identity, but because they are most comfortable maintaining a distance from other people. 

When they were on Holthas, they had been terrible liars. Unable to hide anything but the most rudimentary of desires from others. 

It was only after Semaine and his crew that they had donned the mask, learning that power always rest in the hands of those who control their emotions, and do not allow them to be viewed by others. There is strength in disguising one's face, not allowing their feelings to be known, their heart a mystery to all, their personality enigmatic, fragments and pieces that might be put together, but never so perfectly that they become predictable and controllable. 

And if they're perfectly honest, in the mask, men do not leer at them. People assume they are male because the mask is intimidating, the person is intimidating, and their centuries old gender binary is still intact. They assume that any figure that is not hour glass shaped, slender, soft, and pliant looking must be male. 

Although they are not male, or female for that matter, they prefer this assumption.

Unwanted glances and touches are much less frequent when you are assumed to be male. And they are even less frequent when you're a recurring Apex Champion with more than twenty kills in the ring under your belt. 

They stand up and quietly walk outside. They close the door as gently as they can. 

They approach the side of the building, looking down at the ground below. 

A distance from this height would almost certainly kill a person. 

They let their legs hang over the edge.

Although they are not afraid of heights, their stomach still feels a little flip of nerves at their proximity to the great fall. 

They fumble at their collar, pulling the bottom cloth of their mask free  before sliding it off their head altogether.

Their thick red hair tumbles free onto their shoulders. 

They breathe a sigh of relief as they tilt their face up to the moon.

It has been a long time since they've felt the cold breeze against their face. 

Mirage had of course removed their mask at some point to tend to their injuries, but they hadn't been awake for most of that, only remembering it in bits and flashes. 

Remembering the aftermath more than the occurrence. 

The wind rustles through their hair. 

They shake their head a little, smiling. 

They wonder if their mother is watching from somewhere up there, in the stars.

Is she proud of them?

Or perhaps disappointed? 

She'd always been rather disappointed in them for not being more ferocious, more warrior like. 

But now that that is how they are, is she still disappointed? 

Wishing they were...more callous, perhaps? 

Or perhaps more hellbent on revenge?

They wonder, but they will never know. 

_The next day, Bloodhound meets their new crew at Captain Geth Semaine's ship._

_It's a medium sized cargo ship, good for storing food, medical supplies, and weapons, and little else, but they could care less at this point._

_They just want off this planet._

_And Captain Semaine, who insists that they call him Geth, is their only safe ticket out of there._

_Before they leave, they take a risk._

_They stop, their eyes drawn to Armann's body, ten meters away._

_Limp and pale and lifeless, swinging gently in the breeze._

_A ghastly grin on its decayed lips._

_Bloodhound opens their mouth to say goodbye._

_Just one last goodbye._

_Something small, the best they can do right now._

_But Geth's hand falls down on their shoulder and yanks them away._

_"Do you want to get  yourself killed?" he hisses. "Let's go now!"_

_And he pulls Bloodhound away, practically dragging them, not allowing them to look back._

_Not allowing them to say goodbye._

_Looking back on it, Bloodhound will regret not fighting his grip more._

_Not trying harder to look at their friend, their lover properly, and tell him goodbye._

_But what's done is done, and on that day, their last day on Holthas, the last survivor of a genocide, they leave without saying goodbye, without looking back._

Bloodhound drops their head into their hands. 

They want this game to be over as soon as possible.

They need a drink in the comfort of their hideout on Yaltaran 5. They want to sleep for a day. 

It's been a long time since they've thought of any of these things. 

Somehow, the memories had been drudged up. 

But they'd always been there, lurking at the edges of their mind, waiting for the slightest slip in their defenses, the smallest crack to open up for them so they could pour in like a flood. 

They blame Elliott, for being such a fool. 

For trying to be funny in a time like this.

Laugh in the face of danger.

Make rude faces, sarcastic quips.

Tease them, and tease Caustic. 

Acting as though fate didn't affect him, didn't bother him. 

The fool. 

So very like one they'd known long ago, but also very different.

Colder, harder. 

A touch crueler. 

But also with a streak of kindness that he'd forgotten, buried beneath all of his own guilt.  

Bloodhound's mouth twitches into a smile beneath their cool leather-bound finger tips. 

They trace the scar over their right eye contemplatively, head thrown back, face aimed at the heavens. 

They hope Armann is watching somewhere.

Is really still here, like he said he would be.

Mostly, they hope he isn't too upset about how fond they are of Elliott.

 _I promise, it's only because he's pretty,_ Bloodhound thinks to themselves, imagining Armann's scandalized face. 

_"You can't lie to me. You like him as a person too."_

Too often, they've heard Armann's voice in their nightmares, screaming out in pain, in agony, in anger. 

Now, for the first time, it sounds rather...playful. 

_Maybe. But he is my team mate._

_"You didn't run your fingers through the hair of your team mate last year..."_

_Well he wasn't as good looking. And I'm not that kind of person...I have some standards, you know..._

They can almost hear Armann's laugh, are so close to almost perfectly re-creating it.

But at the same time, they know time has altered his voice, distorted it.

Made it sounds too much like their own laugh, their own voice. Or even Elliott's, which is loud and unabashed, full of swagger and cheer, but sometimes hiding pain, lingering shame. A laugh they can trust, because like them, before they donned the mask, Elliott does not hide himself well enough. 

_"So he's got baggage. So what? You do too. You've got two hands, you know."_

Bloodhound grins, eyes still closed. 

You've got two hands.

That  _is_ something Armann would say. 

The hurt still lingers, but it feels good too. For once, the happiness outweighs the pain as they think of him.

As they remember him. 

Maybe it'll always hurt. 

But maybe the hurt will be worth it, because it'll be beside good feelings too. 

They sigh and take in a deep gulp of fresh air into their lungs. 

The door creaks open slowly behind them. 

"H...hey...someone...out there?"

Bloodhound shakes their head, not surprised by Mirage's appearance, having heard it coming. 

"No. Just thinking."

"Don't...do that so much...it all starts to unravel, you know."

"I know, Elliott." 

"S'bad. Come back inside." 

Bloodhound, mask beside them, turns to look at them with their one good eye.

Elliott, even in his tired, half-conscious state, freezes as he sees their face, truly taking in their appearance now, as opposed to before, when he'd just been worried they would die. 

He suddenly seems embarrassed, turning away and looking back inside. 

"Got...gotta get sleep,  you know. We're gonna need it." 

He holds the door for Bloodhound, letting them pass him, closing the door as quietly as he is able once they have. 

"You look flustered," Bloodhound says simply. "What's the matter, Elliott?"

"I'm f-flus-turd because you're so beautiful," Elliott mumbles. 

And although his words mirror the words of a man they had hated, a man they had disposed of long ago, for some reason, coming from him, they don't mind. 

"N...never noticed before. Had that mask on." 

Bloodhound bites their lip, a chuckle humming in their throat. 

"Go to sleep before you say something you'll really regret." 

"We're a pretty sexy team, you and I. Caustic-Caustic really brings down the group's attractiveness level, but lucky for him, we're just so smoking we make up for it. He's real lucky, you know that? Real lucky." 

He begins to stagger down the stairs, but Bloodhound grabs him by the collar and forces him to sit because he seems almost as though he's sleep walking, barely watching where he's going or where his feet are landing. He seems like he might hurt himself if he tries to go down a level. 

They sit down on the ground next to him, and immediately, Mirage's head is in their lap. 

"Finally, a decent pillow," he sighs. 

Bloodhound rolls their eyes. 

"Don't lean on me if you're not injured." 

They lift his head and push him lightly away, but he just leans on their shoulder instead, hair tickling their neck. 

They haven't been touched like this in years. 

Haven't had anyone lean against them like this in what feels like a lifetime. 

They sigh nonetheless.

"You're like a big lumbering child when you're tired." 

"S'not that different when I'm awake," he murmurs into the cloth of their shoulder. "God, you're comfortable." 

They want to protest more, but he's already asleep again, snoring a little. 

They think about pushing him (gently) onto the ground. 

But they pause, looking outside again, at the stars twinkling in the sky. 

Their own exhaustion seems to catch up with them, and their eyes flutter closed. 

They lean their head back, and before they know it, they've fallen back asleep, Mirage still leaning against their shoulder. 

Bloodhound dreams of sleeping in a cave on a mountain top, but instead of being pressed together, warm and tight and cozy with Armann, they dream that it is Elliott instead.

Elliott, who murmurs, "Gonna save you. Just wait. 'M gonna make it up to you. You can count on me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: 
> 
> \- I didn't realize how long Bloodhound's backstory was going to be, my apologies. I definitely gave them a longer backstory than Mirage's, my bad. I will be shifting some focus back to Mirage, I promise. But there is just ONE last thing I have to cover with Bloodhound. 
> 
> \- We are, unfortunately, drawing to a close my friends. It's been fun, but we are probably gonna wrap this up at least by thirty chapters. Be ready for the CLIMAX. 
> 
> \- It's been a wild ride, guys. I hope you'd had as much fun as I did...while writing this...horribly depressing...fanfic which was supposed to be a romance.............hm. Well, one of these days I'll write a romance that doesn't rely on people getting murdered, but not today. Anyway, good night, and thanks again for the comments. they give me life. and purpose.


	25. Whole Squad Down

The ring is nipping at their heels.

They stumble through the thickets towards Artillery, exhausted and out of breath from their hurried journey across half of the island.

"This is why...I told you...we needed...to get going...sooner," Nathan Weber pants. Keith Donovan glares at him, having been irritated with the tall, rambunctious older man all match. He'd survived one Apex Game and suddenly here he was, thinking he was the expert on where to go, when to get going, and what weapons to use.

Their third squad mate, Lucas Herndon, rolls his eyes, having no particular desire to argue with either of them. He'd been miserable for almost three days now, listening to the two of them bicker about stupid things.

They had been lucky, only running into one squad that had been practically on death's door.

Now they're a step away from being the Apex Champions this year.

They had agreed that they just needed to hide, wait for the last two remaining squads to shoot at one another, then take out the victorious squad before they can recover.

But Keith had taken his time skirting the ring, wanting to loot every stinking corpse they came across.

And he'd complained when Lucas tried to hurry him along, forcing all of them to just barely clear the ring.

Now they all pant outside the archway of Artillery.

"We should lay low in one of those bunkers," Nathan argues. "Just wait for everyone else to come in."

"You daft idiot," Keith hisses. "We're clearly the last to the party. Do you see how this area has been looted?"

"It was probably looted the first day," Nathan insists. "We're fine, we just need to settle down somewhere-"

"The ring is going to start moving very quickly, guys, we need to keep going," Lucas says tersely. "We're out in the open too."

"We'll head to-"

Nathan tenses, ready to argue with Keith about anything he's about to say.

But Keith never gets to finish what he'd been about to say.

A bullet smacks him hard in the head.

He panics, heading turning wildly around, and a second shot whips him in the back of the head now, completely shattering his helmet.

Nathan and Lucas immediately crouch behind the nearest car.

Lucas whips out his Longbow while Nathan has his VK Flatline already out.

But they have no idea where the shot had come from.

Keith, terrified and now realizing that his head is completely unprotected, crouches, hands nervously on his neck as though that would help.

"Shit, they've seen us," Keith snaps. "I told you that every other team with half a brain has already set up here!"

"Where the fuck do we go?" Nathan snaps back. "If we peak them even for a second, that sniper will take us out, but they know we're here!"

"That building," Lucas says, jabbing his thumb towards a small building about fifty meters away from them.

"Are you crazy? We'll get domed instantly by that sniper!"

"We have helmets! Stay behind us. The sniper has to be somewhere up high, probably one of those buildings to the north. If you stay parallel with us, we can take a few hits for you! Our helmets are going to be fucked, though..."

"Doesn't matter. We'll stay in there and wait for them to come to us!"

Keith looks afraid and annoyed, but has no other option but to concede.

Lucas makes a mad dash across the space, ducking and weaving, Nathan close behind.

Keith runs parallel to them, rather glad for once that they're both taller than him.

They're all tense, expecting to be fired on again.

But the sniper, whoever it is, doesn't shoot again.

* * *

 

Bloodhound calmly watches the three men run spasmodically across the open space, their scout in hand.

"Sending the sheep to slaughter," they murmur.

* * *

 Nathan rams into one of the storage shelves inside the small room, winded out of fear and exertion. He grunts irritably as Keith slams into him.

Lucas, having reached the room first, glares at the two of them. "This isn't good, guys, they know exactly where we went-"

"Damn right we do."

A man suddenly appears right front of them.

Lucas lifts his gun and immediately sprays it through him.

Quite literally.

Because rather than spray the man's guts out his back, the man simply flickers, nothing more than a hologram.

It winks at them and finger guns.

And through the hologram, Lucas sees the real man standing on the other side of a pair of open double doors.

He grins and waves.

As his other hand tosses a grenade into the building.

The shelves collapse as its explosive force tears through metal,  knocking down everything in the room onto its inhabitants.

Nathan is pinned down almost immediately, letting out a cry of pain.

A sharp, cut up piece of shelf slices through Keith's leg, but he manages to yank himself free from it, exacerbating the wound but not getting pinned. They stagger back to the doors they'd come in through, but the doors are blocked. 

By...some kind of barrel. 

A big man in a yellow lab coat and goggles stares imperiously at them through the door frame. .

His eyes, far from being cold, are warm, alive with eagerness and glee. 

He untwists the top of the barrel and slams the doors shut.

A thick green gas begins to spew out from the barrel as the doors behind them also slam shut.

* * *

 Mirage can't deny the rush that throwing that grenade had given him. 

And even though he isn't quite jizzing his pants like Caustic over there, staring through the glass doors with disturbingly rapt attention, he certainly isn't feeling too sympathetic for the men currently suffocating in that small storage room. 

And he also can't lie, he'd been just a little excited when he'd seen Bloodhound's perfect head shot on the approaching enemy team they'd spotted miles off. 

Something about the precision of that shot, and seeing it up close, knowing that it would've probably gone right through his head, sends a tingle of warmth through his chest, maybe dipping a little lower.

He'll make sure not to tell Bloodhound later. 

Now Caustic is walking inside of the room, looting corpses and occasionally pausing to...stare at them.

Yikes.

Weird guy.

"I'm going back to base," he yells through the door at the masked man. He makes an effort to be as obnoxious as possible, waving his hands wildly as though Caustic were hard of hearing, giving him an exaggerated smile that beams from ear to ear. He giggles to himself as he walks back, Caustic's look of utter dislike lingering in his mind and putting a spring in his step.

He'd woken up with his head in Bloodhound's side. 

For a moment, thinking he was dreaming, he'd just stayed there, staring at their face, which is as uncovered as it had been last night, when he'd thought he had a wild fever dream that they had talked under the moonlight, and he'd called them beautiful in a sleepy stupor. Then it occurred to him that he had not been dreaming, and he'd stared at them a little longer. 

Their face is so peaceful while they sleep. It's hard for Mirage to imagine what kind of nightmares they could have. 

And even harder for him to imagine being able to sleep, looking that calm, if he had been through something similar. 

He'd eased off of Bloodhound, not wanting to disturb them. 

But they're a light sleeper.

They immediately jerk a little, as though expecting to be attacked, and are instantly alert. 

Their good eye swivels to him with alarm, only half awake.

He had raised his hands defensively. 

"Just me. Sorry." 

Bloodhound had taken a moment to relax. 

Then they had looked a little uncomfortable as they put their mask back on. 

Although Mirage is unhappy that Bloodhound felt awkward about what happened, he can't help but feel rather light-hearted, maybe even light-headed after that surprising, but not unwelcome, wake up. 

He smiles now, thinking of their face, marveling at how kind and soft it looked, despite what they'd experienced, in spite of the nasty scar running through it. He indulges his wildest fantasies for a moment, thinking about how soft their skin might be, how it might feel to run his fingers over the injury, trace the pain etched into their flesh forever by a long-healed wound, hold their cheek in his palm and pull them close-

Mirage is so distracted daydreaming, that he notices the hiss of the smoke grenade almost a second too late. 

He immediately throws himself to the ground into a combat roll. 

His neck aches as he rights himself, since he's a little out of practice, but he'd managed to avoid the second grenade, this one a frag, tossed at the ground below him.

He scrambles to his feet and, without looking back, begins to pelt towards the nearest cover, a huge two floored hangar of sorts, full of machines and staircases leading to the roof. 

He zigzags as erratically as he can, feeling bullets whiz passed him and overhead, one managing to make contact, but only bouncing off the shield. 

He can hear multiple footsteps behind him, feels panic pumping adrenaline into his veins, pushing him to move even faster.

He charges at one of the second floor doors, not wanting to stop and enter the main entrance since it'll take too much time and is too linear of a path, considering the bullets firing behind him. He throws himself up the ledge and onto the small platform leading into the building, ducking as he pulls the door up. 

He hears bullets slamming into the metal, fragments falling to the ground, and at his feet, but because of his sudden change in elevation, his attackers only get another glancing blow off his shield. 

He slams the door shut behind him, but keeps running, knowing that they'll be close behind.

Heart still pumping, Mirage begins to charge up the stairs, praying that Caustic is close behind him.

Or that Bloodhound was still looking at this spot or would be coming soon. 

* * *

 "He's pinned," Wraith says shortly. "He's away from his team mates and he has nowhere to go."

"How do we know his team mates aren't lying in wait?" Bangalore asks sternly. She blows at the muzzle of her still smoking grenade launcher. 

"I just know," the shorter woman insists. "There is a sniper in the area, I heard the shots, but they were not aimed at us. They just took out the fourth remaining squad. Most likely, they were aiming at them and did not know we are here. But they are not firing from this building." 

Bangalore frowns. She has come to trust Wraith's strange intuition and uncanny ability to read her enemies' movements. She also knows that the portals Wraith puts down have something to do with it, are related to her knowledge of multiple possible "paths." She has never believed in clairvoyance or telepathy or any of those other magic tricks they liked to peddle to the superstitious Outlanders, but Wraith is different. 

"Ok," Bangalore says, assenting to her judgement. "We push on him. Come on, Lifeline."

"I think we've run into that guy before," Lifeline says cheerfully. "He's the illusionist one, with the clever little light clones! Be careful when you see him, 'cuz that might not be 'im!" 

They approach the entrance he had used cautiously, Wraith leading the way, with Bangalore close behind. 

Lifeline remains behind them, her healing drone on her back, tied firmly over her backpack. 

She backs up a little, looking downstairs while Bangalore and Wraith head up. 

"Stay here, Ajay," Wraith says. "Watch the stairs, and make sure he doesn't leave. We're going to go up to the roof and see if he's up there."

"Gotcha," Lifeline says, snapping her a finger gun. 

The two older women begin to move slowly up the stairs up into the open air. 

Lifeline follows them a little, but keeps her eyes on the doors. 

The three women are all tense, their guns out, ready for the cornered man to begin shooting any minute. 

But then the main entrance doors slide open, allowing the sunlight to stream in with a loud clank. 

"He's trying to leave!" 

Lifeline begins shooting wildly at his retreating figure, but her angle is all wrong, and her bullets bounce harmlessly off the pavement. 

She pelts down the stairs. 

"Wait!" 

But she doesn't listen, too eager to get the kill. 

She charges out into the sunlight, slowing only to raise her gun and aim downsight at the fleeing man. 

But she blinks, confused, as he stands still. 

And casually puts his hands on his hips, laughing at nothing.

She realizes too late what has happened.

The real one, standing behind her, having opened the door and sent out the decoy, shoots her in the back. 

It bounces off of her healing drone, but throws her onto the ground outside of the hangar. 

She rolls, trying to get back on her feet instinctively, but without the drone, she is left without some of her cover. 

He shoots at her, aim precise, tearing through her armor relatively quickly. 

She takes a bullet to the stomach before gunfire from her two team mates force the man to charge back inside, ducking and weaving and hiding around corners as they charge down the staircase. 

Lifeline lets out a little grunt of pain, the bullet in her flesh sending waves of fiery pain through her stomach. She drags herself off to the side, muscles screaming, blood oozing out of her body quickly as her heart races. 

She yanks out her personal medical kit, looking for something to take the bullet out before she begins to heal herself. 

She prays that her team mates can deal with the man on their own, because digging the bullet out will take quite some time, not to mention actually healing a wound to such a sensitive area will at least double that time.

Inside, Wraith and Bangalore charge after Mirage, who is now running upstairs on the opposite staircase. They shoot up through the grating of the metal stairs at his feet, trying to follow him. 

Wraith goes into void space to move quicker. She catches up with him and stabs wildly at his back with her kunai. 

He lets out a yelp of pain as it slices through the skin of his back, but is still moving quickly enough to make the injury nothing more than a cut. 

He manages to cross the walkway leading to the opposite stair well, and as he bounds up the stairs leading to the roof, he tosses a grenade over his shoulder. 

Wraith skitters backwards, Bangalore crashing into her back. 

"Portal?" the older woman yells in her ear.

"Got it!"

She focuses on the space between her fingers, letting the ever present tingle in the core of her body tremble, jerking in and out of phase. 

She lets it rip a tunnel through space and time, the world going fuzzy for a moment, like bad static on an Earth Prime vintage TV. 

She leaps across the gap, barely managing to make it to the top floor, and connects the tunnel to a portal on the other side. 

She darts up the stairs, Bangalore using the portal to follow her over the gap.

Wraith's eyes dart to the room on top of the roof. 

She begins to approach it, Bangalore prepared to follow, but then freezes.

"Smoke!" 

Bangalore, trusting her enough not to question the order, immediately fires her smoke grenades at the ground.

The entire upper floor is shrouded in smoke.

And she feels Wraith's hand on her shoulders, forcing her down to the ground.

"Sniper!" Wraith hisses. 

They scuttle close to the floor, the thick smoke disguising their approach. 

The two women hear one cautious shot ring out over their heads. 

Then Wraith glances to her right as she hears a zipline being used.

"He's not alone anymore," she hisses to her team mate. 

Bangalore nods.

They wait together on the other side of the wall. 

They both listen carefully, knowing that the man's team mate, the sniper from earlier, must be on the opposite side of this building, waiting to back up their team mate. 

Wraith points at the entrance of the small roof top room, holding up two fingers and gesturing for them to move forward. 

Bangalore nods in understanding. 

They wait for a moment, Wraith's legs bouncing slightly with pent up energy and anticipation, ready to spring into action, Bangalore's legs more hardy and tense, like a coiled up spring, waiting to be released. 

Wraith points at Bangalore, then points at herself, indicating Bangalore should go first.

She puts her weapon on her back, pulling out her kunai. 

Bangalore knows what this means.

Twice now during this competition, Bangalore had drawn fire, smoked, and then allowed for Wraith to get into close combat range of enemies who were not expecting to be gutted in the confusion. 

Although they were an advantage at medium and long range, many times, the guns of the Apex Games could be rather clumsy up close.

And Wraith, fast and extremely precise with her kunai, takes advantage of the fact that most competitors were overly reliant on their automatic rifles to do the job for them. 

Bangalore prepares now to lunge into the room, shoot at the lone enemy, and then gas the floor if he shoots back, allowing for Wraith to dive in, perhaps slash at his ankles, and then gut him. 

But as they turn the corner, the doors fly open.

And the man runs out. 

Bangalore raises her gun to shoot, but Wraith seizes her arm. 

The man smiles and waves at them cheekily. 

"That trick won't work twice," Wraith murmurs. 

She ignores the decoy, and Bangalore, seeing it for what it is now, ignores it as well. 

Bangalore, using a Peacekeeper, charges into the now open room with the gun steadily aimed in front of her. 

But she turns around, confused, as she sees multiple decoys all standing around, looking amused, laughing, and tilting their heads at nothing, the real man nowhere to be found. 

"He's cloaked, but he's still here," Wraith says, standing outside cautiously, wanting to be ready in case he tried to run out, or if his team mate tried to come in after them. 

"Then good luck to him!"

Bangalore runs out of the room, yanks the pin out of her last grenade, and tosses it in. 

She slams the doors shut as it goes off. 

"Rude." 

Bangalore's eyes widen. 

Wraith, her voices warning her that someone was behind her long before Bangalore's instincts, whips around. 

She slashes at his throat with her kunai, intending to finish him off with one solid blow. 

But her blade is stopped by another blade. 

She grunts, pushing back against the blade of the masked hunter, a returning Apex Champion that she had fought once before, who went by the mysterious title Bloodhound. 

Her wrist jerks upwards, and she throws Bloodhound's blade off of hers, slashing at their chest.

They dart backwards, parrying the blow. 

As she slashes and parries blows, she hears gunfire, and tenses.

But it is their first target, the illusionist, firing at Bangalore, who'd taken refuge behind the room, and was firing back. 

"Good to see you again, Bloodhound," Wraith grunts, her fingers trembling with the effort of holding back their knife from her face. Her kunai shakes, wavers for a moment before her face, but she manages to catch it, pressing it back towards Bloodhound's mask. 

"Likewise, Wraith. I hope your search has been going well." 

They knock her knife away, and aim for the eyes. 

She slashes horizontally, catching their blade and throwing their wrist off course.

She makes a stab at their throat, but they catch her wrist. 

And the other hand with the dagger goes in, aiming for her stomach. 

But her reflexes are as fast as theirs, and she catches their hand as well.

They remain locked together for a moment, both with one hand poised to strike, the other holding their opponent's hand back. 

"No," she says glumly, almost thoughtfully, as though they were  having a conversation over a cup of coffee. "I still do not know what was done to me, to make me like this." 

"A pity," Bloodhound says. "Perhaps next year, if you survive?" 

"Perhaps." 

They both let go at the same time, both leaping back a step. 

Bloodhound flinches as one of Bangalore's shots, missing a weaving Mirage, hits them in the face. 

Their head is shielded by the flexible force field helmet, as well as their gas mask, but Wraith takes this opportunity to sweep their legs out from under them. 

She dives on top of them, grabbing them by the collar and raising her knife to stab them in the throat. 

But Bloodhound rolls, throwing off her aim, sending the knife glancing off the side of their mask. 

They manage to shake her off of them, sending her rolling herself to the side. 

But as they try to get back to their feet, she stabs at them again with the knife, this time aiming for their back. 

But they turn just in time, their hand knocking her hand off course.  

And because of that fumble, she misses their back, instead hitting their jump kit, tied around their waist, which sparks angrily, the metal immediately twisting up and bending. 

She tries to yank the knife free, but they whip around and punch her square in the face, knocking her back. 

"Nothing personal," they say. 

They charge at her, tackling her and knocking her to the ground before she can get back up. 

Their hand grabs at her throat.

She slips into phase, twisting out of their grip like a ghost. 

She darts around them and kicks them in the back. 

They fall forward with the momentum. 

She kicks them again, this time in the stomach, but Bloodhound, wearing a good amount of padding, is barely affected, merely rolling back to their feet. 

The kunai, dislodged by the roll, falls to the ground. 

"Nothing personal," she says back.

And she means it.

She has been on Bloodhound's team once before. 

They had been a rather agreeable partner, and were quite indulgent of her need to explore the facilities of Kings Canyon, obligingly scanning and checking for enemies before allowing her to inspect the laboratories that may contain clues to her past. 

But business is business, and now she wants to end this game. 

She dives at them, and they surge forward to meet her. 

She has fought Bloodhound hand to hand before. 

It's odd, how often they seem to come to physical blows rather than elongated fire fights. 

She of course is an experienced sniper, but she prefers not to test her luck with Bloodhound. 

Whatever she had been in a past life, it definitely was more in line with a close combat specialist than a long ranged, patient hunter. Her muscle memory leans more towards years of martial arts training rather than sitting or standing still for a long time, waiting to land a perfect shot. She had good aim, better than most, but something feels more right about her kunai's weight in her hand. There's something innately satisfying in throwing men twice her size over her shoulder, and putting them quickly out of their misery with a stab to a vital organ. 

But when it comes to mano a mano, she is confident. More than confident, in fact.

Bloodhound can hold their own, and had before, but every time they do this, she gets a little bit better, a little bit sharper. 

She's been dying to try this out against them, and the situation had just perfectly turned into her favor. 

With a heart kick to their chest, she forces them a distance away from  her. 

And she then concentrates hard, letting her fingers ripple through the void. 

She opens a portal directly behind herself, not letting Bloodhound see it. 

Then she moves a short distance, and opens a portal directly behind them. 

And they, not realizing it, think she has let her guard down.

They punch her in the face, and she takes it.

Because it allows her to seize them by the collar, take a step forward. 

And toss them directly into the portal.

They fall through it, letting out a grunt of surprise. 

And as expected, they fall through the tunnel, and out the other side. 

She allows the portal to close. 

And then Wraith crosses the space where it had been, and thrusts her right leg out with all of her might. 

She'd been dying to try this.

Try using her portals to her advantage.

And here it is, the perfect opportunity.

Bloodhound isn't expecting it. 

Going into the void is never easy for normal people, who aren't used to being between dimensions the way she is. 

And they will be discombobulated, not realizing their new position. 

And as it so happens, she has just, accidentally but rather luckily, broken their jump kit. 

Her kick connects solidly with Bloodhound's chest. 

And lands with enough force and power to throw them bodily off of the roof, and careening down towards the cold, hard ground below. 

She hears a howl of rage and shock behind her, hears Bangalore yell out in pain, and whips around. 

Mirage, having landed a powerful blow with his Peacekeeper finally, and blowing out Bangalore's right knee, charges around her downed team mate, and is going right for her, his eyes furious, enraged, and almost animalistic. 

Wraith doesn't have the time to pull out her weapon, and even if she had her kunai in her hand, she wouldn't want to test it against the most powerful shotgun in the game. 

She jumps into the void space and walks off the edge of the roof. 

Mirage's bullets graze her back, even from high up, on the roof, since its range is quite formidable, but she still lands on the ground easily, her jump kit activating and slowing her descent.

On the ground, Bloodhound's body lies motionlessly, blood pooling underneath them.

She isn't sure if they are dead or alive, but can't stay to check. 

She sees a trail of blood leading away from the hangar, heading towards the northern bunker, where Bloodhound had presumably come from. 

Wraith begins to chase after it, ignoring the pain in her back, and finds Lifeline, who is obviously still extremely hurt, bent over, her hand on her stomach, healing drone still activated but spinning slowly behind her, attached to her hip. She reaches out, hand about to open the main doors of the bunker. 

_There's a trap!_

"Ajay, wait!" 

But she's too far away, and Lifeline does not hear her. 

She opens the doors.

And Wraith covers her eyes as a massive explosion goes off, energy rippling through the air in waves, knocking even her, several meters away, off her feet. 

Green gas also begins to pour out of the bunker, spraying down from the ceiling, down onto the chaos. 

Wraith wants to run inside, drag Lifeline out, just to give her a chance. 

She had grown to rather like the energetic and humorous young girl, who had spent the last three days ribbing her on her dating life, her food tastes, and her choice in "weeb" clothing, whatever that meant. 

Even if Lifeline is critically injured, there's a chance that Wraith could drag her out. Even if she can't be healed, Wraith could at least win this game quickly, and she could receive proper medical attention and still be saved. 

But the gas is too strong.

She can't get close to it, and even if she crossed into void space, the moment she dropped out of it to grab Lifeline, she would be affected by its toxin.

Even though it pains her to do it, she can't go and see if Lifeline is still alive, if she'd survived that explosion, if she survived the ensuing gas.

Instead, she starts running to the opposite hangar. 

All she can do now is heal herself, survive, and win this game. 

* * *

As she limps away, Mirage yanks Bangalore's backpack away from her, removing her ability to heal herself with med kits. 

He jumps off the roof of the building, his jump kit activating and slowing her descent, as Wraith's had. 

He lands poorly in his haste, clumsily skipping several feet before skittering to a stop before Bloodhound's broken body. 

"Hound?! Hound, talk to me!" 

He fumbles at their mask, wanting desperately to get it off, but also terrified of what he might see the second he does. 

Clumsy, and cursing, he finally manages to pull the mask off. 

His entire chest constricts with fear and horror at what he sees. 

"...Bloodhound...?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> \- do not ask me why the helmet works like that. I don't know how it works in the game either, I just know that you can get shot in the face, and take headshot damage, plus when you put a helmet on, your actual character is not wearing a helmet. so relax, ees video game. 
> 
> \- wraith seems like a close combat type of gal, idk why. maybe it's the kunai? maybe it's the way she's always punching you in the fucking face with finishers or throwing you around? idk, i just know it's the sexiest thing about her. anyway, enough about my bisexuality. moving on, wraith could probably beat bloodhound in a 1v1 melee fight because she has the advantage of being able to void walk. and if the portal wasnt an ultimate? yeah, that shit is mortal kombat levels of op in a fist fight. 
> 
> \- also, i think that wraith being a close combat fighter makes her deadly because listen, everyone can shoot a gun. not many people can jump up behind you with a portal and stab you in the throat before you can even turn around. guns are really good for long distance killing and medium distance, but you have to aim a gun, and imagine trying to shoot someone who's just faster than you and already has your throat leaking a river down your shoes before you can even raise your arm. not good. 
> 
> \- AND FINALLY, yes. Bloodhound just got thrown off a roof, can you believe it? Crazy, how without a jump kit, one would take...that's right. fall damage. yikes. gee, i wonder what will happen next...


	26. Respawn Time Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sexual assault. Worse than last time, but not as bad as it could be. I'm not making it explicit, but it could still be triggering for some, so a pause.

_Bloodhound has been through many uncomfortable experiences._

_Sleeping on icy ground had been one of their earliest ones. But they had adjusted eventually, even made it feel normal after a while._

_Pulling the clothing and supplies off of their dead family and friends had been another, a morbid task, emotionally and physically often difficult. But they had come to respect death as it came, and accept that the living took priority over the dead, and their loved ones would understand._

_Although they had been reasonably fit before Holthas, the physical trauma of having to move as far and as fast as they had to, every few months, had been difficult to overcome, and impossible for some._

_But they had eventually adapted to that too, becoming stronger, gaining greater stamina, and greater fortitude, resistance to the extreme temperatures and rigors of constant motion._

_They have seen many horrible things in the wilderness of Holthas, and done terrible things to preserve what is left of their clan._

_But all of those terrible experiences are a whole different level of discomfort from Geth Semaine's merchant ship._

_Here on the Zenon Fortune, they are comfortably dressed, on a well-heated ship with plenty of food, water, and other amenities. Although it isn't large, it still possesses a bar and a lounge for the crew to enjoy a game of cards or pool or darts in between shifts. They are never hungry, nor thirsty, and sleep on a bed that's more comfortable than anything they've ever slept on, although that's hardly an achievement given the things they are accustomed to sleeping on. They are given multiple jobs, from clean-up to smaller operations duty, such as simply reading numbers off of screens for someone else to input or crawling through vents with the ship's engineer to hold a flash light for them. None of these jobs are particular strenuous physically or mentally._

_And yet, Geth is one of the most disgusting human beings they have ever met (and that is an achievement)._

_And his presence, and behavior, make the Zenon as nightmarish, but in a different way, as Holthas._

_At first, he is merely friendly._

_Bloodhound mostly stays in their quarters, uncomfortable around the rest of the crew, but occasionally they do venture out to the lounge to look out the windows, see the stars, sometimes listen to the crew joke among one another, just to pretend for just a little while that they belong there._

_The few times they had ventured out, Geth makes his intentions known._

_He sits beside Bloodhound wherever they are, bumping hips against theirs, putting his arm around their waist._

_Or he grabs them around the shoulders, shaking them heartily, his fingers sometimes sliding up to their neck, brushing their hair away from their face._

_Each time, Bloodhound merely stiffens, wanting to pull away, but knowing what will happen if they do._

_Every time, they try to imagine themselves somewhere else._

_Back home._

_With Mother, Father._

_Or even on Holthas, with Alda._

_With Armann._

_Their names and faces swim before their eyes as Geth's hands squeeze their hips until they hurt._

_They begin to avoid these areas, instead taking to roaming about the ship._

_They run into multiple crew members, who give them curt nods or ignore them completely._

_This works for a while, until Geth corners them in a hallway, seizes their wrist, and pulls them off to the side where he plants a sloppy, wet kiss on their lips._

_They reel back instinctively, but he merely follows until their head hits the nearest wall, and they can no longer escape._

_They close their eyes and try to imagine someone else while he shoves his tongue down their throat._

_The tension from both their fear and their repulsion leaves their body tight as a bowstring._

_And Geth stops after a while, looking annoyed._

_"You don't have to be so petrified," he says irritably. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not into that kind of stuff."_

_But it doesn't matter what he's "into."_

_Bloodhound doesn't want to be involved with him like this, or even in any way._

_But they have nowhere else to go right now._

_They are trapped on a star ship with a man whose advances are unwanted, and who cannot be denied._

_So they say nothing._

_Do nothing, try to relax as much as they can when Geth squeezes their ass at the comm system, the pilot they had been assisting looking pointedly away, or when his hand strokes their lower back at the engine operations table._

_For a few weeks, there's nothing more than invasive touching and groping._

_Geth loads and unloads cargo at other ports._

_He refuses to allow Bloodhound to leave the ship with the rest for down time, and insists that if they try to run, they would have nowhere to go, since they are a fugitive. He warns them that their people are seen as terrorists, and even if they weren't, they wouldn't get off of any space port without any money._

_And although Bloodhound works, they are not getting paid._

_"One day, if you behave," Geth says idly, smiling with faux kindness at the hunter. "Perhaps we can talk about allowances."_

_Bloodhound is sickened by his paternal voice, one he uses often when speaking to them. It is always patronizing, belittling, and reminds them of how powerless they are under his control._

_One night, Geth walks into their room, unannounced, and kisses them hard against their bed, his body unrelenting, bearing down on them like a grimmur, with its blood-stained jaws snapping. They put up with it for a few moments, but when Geth's  hands begin to tug at their shirt, they punch him off with so much force that he falls clear over the other side of the bed and hits the wall. He scrambles up, in pain, embarrassed, and furious. "You've got it good here, child," he spits. "I'll let you have that one because you're clearly having problems adjusting to civilized society. But up in space, we repay our debts. We respect the people who saved our asses from miserable deaths. You can push it off a little, but not forever, do you hear me? Get used to the idea now, and prepare yourself. You're not here to hold flashlights for us."_

_Bloodhound doesn't look at him, feeling too angry and violated to answer him right away, or even think about what he had said._

_But later, it weighs heavily in their mind._

_They have to escape this ship._

_They will not serve this man. Not for ten years, not for five, nor even a single year._

_And they must make plans._

_Real plans. Not wild schemes that rely on chance, but solid plans that will account for Geth's ability to find them again, and for the fact that they are indeed a fugitive with no money or desirable skill sets._

_While putting up with Geth's fondling, and working with his crew members, they begin to focus on how the ship runs._

_What each crew member does._

_And more importantly, they begin to get to know the technology they are working with._

_Although Geth has explicitly refused to allow Bloodhound to work directly on ship's systems, many of his crew members are willing to explain what they're doing to Bloodhound, if not directly. They give them a lot of information while asking them to hand them the proper tool or equipment, discuss important engine repairs or modifications while they are serving them drinks or cleaning up after them. They talk about the weaknesses and strengths of a ship such as theirs. One of the most important weaknesses, they say, is that the ship can be run easily by a basic AI. Although this could be beneficial, it is more often exploitable since the ship's computers could easily be tampered with, leaving the ship disabled. Additionally, the ship runs on a less environmentally friendly fuel source than others. The gases produced by the fuel source are highly flammable and run through out the cargo ship through multiple vents, but these vents air out into space. This is an issue because sometimes these chemicals are in dangerous of leaking, and must be checked regularly._

_One of its major strengths of the ships, however, is that the fuel source they use, flammable gas or not, moves them quickly and efficiently enough. The issue of flammability only matters in oxygen rich environments, and they have multiple fail safes to protect different parts of the ship from flammable and toxic gases._

_This information Bloodhound stores carefully in their mind as Geth slobbers all over their ear, biting ugly and painful hickeys into their neck._

_They ask a lot of questions, and are usually rebuffed by annoyed mechanics and engineers, but they pick up tidbits here and there anyway._

_They learn tricks._

_And most importantly, they discover the Oculus._

_Fourth in command, Chief of Engineering, Dallas Murdock brings it in one day._

_It is a simple tool, really._

_A glowing orange compass of sorts, to be used to read heat signatures through walls._

_It is mostly a device used for search and rescue, allowing for users to find people who are trapped in debris after natural or man-made disasters._

_Dallas had been about to throw it away, having won it from some poor drunk son of a bitch from a bar on Vellago, but Bloodhound asks if they can keep it._

_Dallas had squinted at them distrustfully, as many in the crew do when they speak out of turn._

_"Why do you want it?"_

_"It's pretty," they say. "And...I don't own many things. I...would like to have something other than the clothes on my back."_

_"And I doubt you keep those on much when the captain's around, eh?" Dallas sneers._

_Bloodhound feels rage boiling in their belly, but they do their best to keep it off their face._

_"I can see how badly you wanna snap and bite my throat out," Dallas murmurs, bending down, face pushing uncomfortably close to Bloodhound's. They step back, but he encroaches on their space anyway, hand shooting out to grab Bloodhound hard by the collar. "But you know what would happen, don't you? He'd throw you in the brig. And then it'd be open season on you. No one would dare touch you while you were in a frontal cabin, near the captain and his number one and two. But the brig is awful lonely at the back of the ship, ain't it? So I'd suggest you smile more at me. Make an effort to be nicer. Because if you're not, you'll see how unkind I can really be."_

_He shoves them hard against the table._

_He turns away from them dismissively._

_And they think about attacking him for a wild, hot moment, wanting to snap his neck, consequences be damned._

_But they stop themselves, because other people are watching them, waiting, perhaps hoping, they'd make a move._

_They bite their tongue, and say nothing._

_And return to his side, a storm brewing in their heart, but staying behind a tightly closed mouth._

_"Good girl," Dallas says sneeringly._

_At the sound of being misgendered, Bloodhound thinks of gripping his hair with their fingers and slamming his face into the console until it's bloody._

_But instead they just silently begin to input the numbers he asks them to._

_And at the end of the day, he tosses them the Oculus._

_"For all your good work,"  he says with an unbearably condescending grin. "And next time you're blowing the captain, think about paying_ me  _a favor."_

_But the minute it's in their hands, Bloodhound doesn't hear a word he says._

_Because they have what they want._

_Every night, they work on it._

_Pulling it apart, putting it back together, studying it inside and out._

_They begin stealing tools and equipment from work, to toy with the device and modify it._

_It had a very limited range when they got it._

_They extend that to about triple its original range._

_Before, they figure out that it can be fooled with heat from something as simple as an overheating engine or a powerful light source._

_Bloodhound modifies its sensitivity to only detect human heat signatures._

_And then they begin working on a pair of goggles, stolen from the Chief of Lower Hull Operations, who is much more polite than Dallas, but also more of a pervert. He, like the captain, thinks it's acceptable to try and paw at them in public. but at least he had offered them a spare pair of goggles while working down in the Lower Hull, and simply hadn't bothered asking for them back._

_Bloodhound develops an Oculus that can see people through walls, highlight their footsteps, all the little imprints they leave behind._

_They were not born into this world, of highly advanced technology, of star ship scanners and human life force radars, but they adapt to it as well as they had adapted to Holthas._

_The goggles attach to a headset, which attaches, through multiple cords and wires, to the Oculus, which they mount on their wrist._

_And with a simple push, the Oculus scans._

_And their goggles detect where people are, at the moment of scanning, highlighting them in orange._

_The first time it works, they are so thrilled that Geth's hard-on rubbing against their belly doesn't even properly register with them until the next morning._

_Before, they had simply been trying to learn about the ship's operations, trying to figure out how to escape when the proper time arose._

_But the Oculus, their Eye, had been a personal pet project._

_A hobby, to take their mind off of the ship they are trapped on, and the captain whose advances are inescapable._

_And one they hope to use one day, when they are back in the wilderness, hunting big game, or even simply hiding from the IMC._

_They become so consumed with the personal project, and with trying to balance their other duties, that they almost forget that Geth is more than just an annoyance._

_However, they are painfully reminded about four months into their journey._

_They are sitting in Engineering, nodding along, bored, as new recruit Polan tries to explain to them how anti matter works in the anti-matter engine containment unit, when Dallas comes up to them, his hand falling onto their shoulder._

_"You're not supposed to talk to the girl," he says harshly._

_The boy's eyes widen._

_"Girl? Oh." He flushes. "I-I didn't realize he was- I mean she was-"_

_"Get back to your work, idiot."_

_The young man scrambles up, throwing Bloodhound a confused, embarrassed look._

_Bloodhound blinks at Dallas coldly._

_"What do you want?" they ask._

_"Show some respect, brat," Dallas snaps. "I'm here to give you a message. The captain wants you in his quarters, tomorrow night, at six."_

_The man's gaze on their face is lecherous, as threateningly leering as possible, eyes scanning up and down their body, as though peeling off every layer of clothing like skin._

_Bloodhound's mouth twitches._

_"Still can't control yourself, huh? Your emotions are always so plain on your face. You really hate me, don't you?" Dallas sneers. "I'd tell you to wear a mask, but that pretty little face is about the only thing you're good for around here."_

_Bloodhound isn't exactly sure what happened after that, only that the next thing they remember is being dragged off a screaming Chief of Engineering, whose face is bloody and swollen, his nose dripping scarlet._

_"I could kill you with one eye closed!" Bloodhound howls at him as they're dragged away._

_They are taken to the brig, but only for a night._

_They are let out and ordered, this time by Polan, who is flushed and seems to understand the implications of the message, to be in the captain's quarters by six._

_Every member of the crew in the vicinity all stare at Bloodhound, gazes hard and judgmental, some embarrassed, some sympathetic, and most simply uncomfortable._

_They wonder miserably if the captain does this a lot as they walk at a quarter to five to his quarters._

_They had a night to think it over, to plan an escape, to think desperately of diseases they could pretend to have, illnesses they could quickly contract in twelve hours._

_But they can think of nothing, no excuses, no ways around it._

_They had held off as long as they could, for an astounding amount of time, given Geth's persistence, and the lack of space to hide or run._

_They had known from the beginning what the captain wanted, all along._

_Had known it on Holthas._

_And they had accepted it then, in a desperate situation._

_Now the situation might feel less desperate, but in reality, they are still only barely clinging to life._

_They do not belong here, have been  made to feel different, alien, alone._

_Because it benefits these men in power._

_Just as it had at home, and  on Holthas, they are outsiders, whose status as outsiders is used to treat them without human decency or respect._

_Now they must face this fact once again._

_Bloodhound almost doesn't knock on the door._

_Stands outside it for a long time._

_Just biting their lip, thinking about what would happen if they threw themselves out the airlock._

_Thinking about Armann, how ashamed he'd be of Bloodhound. How disgusted._

He would never touch you again. No one would. 

_But as six thirty rolls around, the door suddenly slides open._

_And Bloodhound is face to face with Geth, who looks furious, but then looks relieved, and excited, as he sees them._

_"Child," he says, the only thing he's ever called Bloodhound. "A little late, I see."_

_They swallow down the bile in their throat._

_They allow themselves to be pulled into his room._

_They see the details of his room, but barely, eyes flitting passed every decoration as though in a dream._

_All they can focus on is the soft bed he pushes them down onto, eyes averting as he begins to strip._

_Closing completely as his hands shove their chest down on the mattress, pawing at their shirt, unzipping the front of their pants._

_They flinch and squirm, wanting to run, but do not make a serious effort to escape._

_They have no friends here. No family._

_No one to protect them, no one to fight for them._

_They are alone, and they have been brought here for only one purpose._

_The unfairness of their situation frustrates them, angry tears leaking from the corners of their eyes._

_Geth, mistaking them for tears of fear, pain, or perhaps sorrow, kisses them gently._

_"I'm not going to hurt you, child. You don't have to be scared of me, I'm not like the other men on this ship. I don't just see your body or your face, I see all of you. The kind and gentle soul that shines out of those beautiful eyes. The sweet and innocent child who saw their entire family get massacred. You've been through so much for someone so delicate. I'm sorry that you're nervous, I wish we could've...gotten to know each other more first. But you've been so distant...so cold. And tonight, I'm going to warm you up."_

_Bloodhound has never been more sickened by another person's words in their entire life._

_None of what he had said applies to them, and the cloying way he'd said it, as though Bloodhound is a damsel in distress that he'd "saved" and "protected," makes them even sicker to their stomach than they had been when his oily little sausage like fingers were all over their bare chest._

_They jerk once again as he begins to pull down their pants, which get caught on their hips for a brief moment._

_He smiles fondly as he takes great care in sliding them off the rest of the way, fingers rubbing gentle circles into their hips, just the way he had in the lounge._

_His bare chest feels disturbingly hot against theirs, chest hair tickling them, maybe their stomach clench with disgust and alarm, their heart caught in their throat with disgust._

_Geth's thighs bracket them, tight around their waist, not allowing them to move either way, his hands on their shoulders, increasing their sense of being pinned down and trapped._

_"You're so beautiful," he groans, bending his neck down to kiss them on the lips once again. He doesn't notice or care that Bloodhound isn't responding, is just letting him do what he wants. "So beautiful. I knew as soon as I saw you."_

_Bloodhound turns their head to the side, breaking contact with him for a moment._

_"Knew what?" they ask, trying to keep the anger out of their voice, but failing, their face red from stress and exertion._

_"I knew," Geth murmurs, grabbing their chin and forcing them to face him. "That I loved you."_

_Immediately, Bloodhound surges up, trying to shove him off, not knowing it was possible to be more disgusted and disturbed than they were moments ago._

_They think about all of the people who had loved them, all of the people they had loved, and are revolted by Geth having the nerve to use their exact words, pantomime the feelings they had shared with them, in this sick parody version._

_But they can't get up, because Geth is heavier and stronger and his weight is suffocating._

_He rubs his obviously erect penis against Bloodhound's thigh, aroused by their struggle, by their reluctance._

_"I can show you. I can prove it."_

_Bloodhound's hand touches his chest, trying to force him away._

_But he's already up and off of them, walking over to his closet._

_The hunter, confused, stares at him, not sure why he'd stopped his assault._

_The man turns around, smiling broadly._

_"I have a gift for you, child. Come and take a look."_

_He approaches slowly, something in his hand._

_Bloodhound doesn't want to get any closer to the man than they absolutely have to._

_But their narrowed eyes still go towards his hand, irresistibly attracted by curiosity to see what he's holding._

_The man smiles as he uncurls his fingers, showing them what he'd taken out of a box in his closet._

_"This is a symbol of my love for you. I know how much you wanted to say goodbye, and it broke my heart to not allow you to, but given the circumstances, I just couldn't. But then I felt bad, so I sent back a member of the crew to get this for you. As a symbol of how much I care about you, and want you to be happy here with me."_

_Bloodhound stares at a lock of what must be, cannot be anything other than, Armann's hair._

Blood gushes from Bloodhound's mouth, slipping down their cheeks and staining the ground beneath their head. 

Mirage knocks their now undone mask away as he holds their face in his hands. 

"Bloodhound? Bloodhound, I  have a med kit, I have-!"

A siren blares. 

"Ring closing!"

With shaking hands, he reaches into his backpack.

But a hand on his wrist stops him.

Bloodhound's eyes are hazy, in pain, but they're somehow still fixated on him, their fingers locked around his wrist in a strangle hold.

"Get...out...of...here." 

"No," Mirage says simply. "Let me go, I'm going to heal you partially and then I'll drag you, carry you somewhere safe, and then go after Wraith. You'll be ok, do you hear me? You'll be ok."

Liam's face wavers before his eyes, but he shakes his head angrily.

"You're not him," he says, more to himself than Bloodhound, whose eyes are fluttering. "You're Bloodhound. The person who saved my life. The person I'm going to drag out of the ring alive if it's the last thing I do."

"Ring...coming..." Bloodhound's pointer finger shakes as they point. He looks behind himself and sees with a renewed horror that the orange wave is approaching them once more, this time moving much quicker, covering more landscape in mere seconds. 

"We've gotta move quickly, Hound, let me go-" 

"Can't...I'm dying, Elliott..."

"No, you're not," Elliott says. "You aren't, you stupid dummy. It feels like that sometimes. You're gonna be fine, if you'd just-"

"Spine...neck...not...making it...." 

"Shut the fuck up," the man shouts. "What do you know anyway, you useless fuck? Getting thrown off a fucking roof and getting yourself hurt when the fucking ring is right there- right fucking there, and just when we- when we were about to win too- useless fucking team mate, now let go of me!"

He yanks his arm away from Bloodhound.

But Bloodhound shoves him away weakly as he tries to inject them with the syringe.

"Leave," they shout, blood leaking from their gritted teeth. They cough, shudder, chest wracked with painful tremors and twitches. "Can't...stay." 

"I'm not fucking  leaving you," Elliott shouts back. "I'm not! Stop saying that! Stop it! I thought you were different, I thought you weren't like them! I thought you were smarter, calmer, braver, I thought you were stronger! But you're as weak and-and pathetic as all of the people who've begged me, begged me not to-not to leave them. Who told me to go, and be fucking happy that I'm a coward, as long as I live. You fucking...stupid...son of a bitch. Trying to be a fucking hero." 

The ring bears down on his neck, and he grits his teeth, pain setting his body on fire.

Bloodhound groans.

"Go!"

"I can't!" Elliott shouts, hand on Bloodhound's chest, fingers tight in the fabric of their clothing. "I won't! What is the matter with you? Why aren't you begging me to stay?"

"You...have...to win," Bloodhound gasps, the ring hurting them worse than it's hurting Elliott. "You have to. Please, Elliott. Go. You have to win." 

There are tears rolling down Elliott's face, but he can't feel them, not when he's in this much pain. He bows his head over Bloodhound's body, hair getting bloody, but he refuses to budge, hands gripping them tightly. 

"I don't want you to die," he whispers into their chest. "I can't let you die. Not again." 

Their gloved hand, wracked with pain but somehow still strong, seizes his shoulder.

He looks down at their bleeding face, their sad, yet knowing eyes. 

"Find...your mother," they say. "Find your brothers. Apologize. And...if you can...along the way...keep...an eye out...for my people...Find them...too..." 

He realizes with a jolt that there are tears in their eyes too. 

Rolling down their face, which is suddenly more alive with emotions than he's ever seen it.

Full of fear, anger, desperation, sorrow, loss. 

Full of every emotion he's ever heard in Bloodhound's voice, but never seen on their face, because they've kept it hidden under their mask this entire time. 

He nods. 

He nods because he has to. Because Bloodhound is shoving him away. 

Because the pain is excruciating, becoming unbearable. 

Because there is something else in Bloodhound's eyes. 

Something warm and bright, among the darkness. 

He begins to push himself off the ground. 

But to his shock, Bloodhound's hand pulls him back to them.

Confused, he opens his mouth to say something, although he isn't sure what. 

But Bloodhound takes the words out of his mouth by pulling his head down, and using the last of their energy to surge upwards.

Their lips meet his halfway, taking the air out of his lungs, sending stars skyrocketing through his skull, bouncing off the walls in excited trails, despite the pain and danger they're both in, his entire body hurting but suddenly feeling more alive than he's felt in years, as though his heart had just gone into supernova. 

It lasts too long, yet at the same time, doesn't last long enough. 

Bloodhound's head falls back on the ground, their eyes locked on Elliott's. Elliott wipes their blood off his mouth, feeling sick, jittery, and still in pain due to the ring. 

"Sorry..." they croak. "Never...got to say...goodbye to him. Couldn't...make the same...mistake again."

* * *

_They stare at the lock of hair for a long time._

_Then they look at Geth, who is smiling eagerly at them._

_Who is in his underwear, had stripped them to theirs, and was grinning happily at them, as though he'd just given them a fine and marvelous treat._

_They stare at him, and just like with Alda, just like on Holthas, when they'd first killed an Apex Predator, just like when they'd seen Armann die, a barrier breaks._

_Something snaps._

_The world is flipped, and the universe changes._

_The man turns around, putting the lock of hair gently back in its box._

_Bloodhound slides off the bed._

_"I'll give this to you after we're done, pet, don't you worry. Now you-"_

_But the man doesn't get to finish his sentence._

_Because Bloodhound lunges at him._

_The man lets out a yell, but it's stifled by Bloodhound's arms around his neck, their knees digging into his fleshy back._

_"St-agh-" he groans. "M-lov-you-!"_

_But Bloodhound just squeezes tighter and tighter, digging their weight into his back, feeling his body struggling with all of its might below theirs, feeling his life force as it writhes, trying to hold on._

_But as hard as the man tries to escape their grip, he can't._

_He tries to roll, but Bloodhound's grip never falters, whether they're on top or bottom, holding resolutely on, refusing to give up, even when he hits them in the nose with the back of his head, breaking it._

_After an agonizingly long time, he finally goes limp._

_And Bloodhound finds his dagger, hidden in one of his boots._

_And they slice through his throat for good measure._

_He lies unconscious, on the floor, throat gushing rivers of crimson, as Bloodhound dresses themselves again._

_And he is probably dying, passing the point of no return, when they leave._

_Armann's hair tied securely to the bloody blade._

_It is tied securely, even when they hack through Geth's second in command's lungs._

_Even when they grasp his third by the hair and slice through his throat, shaking his head a little as blood spills from his neck like a waterfall._

_By that point, alarms are blaring._

_People are yelling, making noises._

_But they don't care._

_Because there's a deadly precision and logic to their thinking right now._

_They are not afraid, only determined._

_They are not horrified or numb or confused._

_Their mind is sharp, with deep clarity and acuity._

_There are four escape pods on this ship that are capable of light speed travel. There are multiple habitable planets in this sector, but only one that has been developed by anti IMC forces. It is off course from their current trajectory, but reachable._

_This they know._

_And they know something else too._

_That the engine can and will spew deadly gas through out most of the ship, if its safeties are turned off and the vents that contain it are opened._

_It is something they have known for a long time, since they were warned not to play with the controls or gas redistribution or chemical reactions in the ship's energy containers, but had never had the courage to consider as a potential solution in the future._

_Now they only consider it done._

_They head to Engineering, and find Dallas._

_He takes one look at them and whips out his pistol._

_His coworkers do the same._

_However, Bloodhound dives down, ducking their  bullets by hiding behind an island console, mind blank, unafraid and calculating._

_They lurch out to the side just as a crewman runs around it, trying to catch them by surprise._

_They slice through the muscles of his calves with their knife._

_He goes down howling._

_They roll across the floor and throw the knife into the face of another crewman, whose head falls back gracelessly in an arch as they fall._

_They then kick the legs out from under the nearest woman, who is firing her gun at them, but is disrupted by their kick._

_She accidentally hits a gas line somewhere overheard, and hot white gas floods the room, covering everyone in deadly chemical smoke._

_Bloodhound feels someone tackling them, can feel their fists hammering down on their head._

_They let out a roar of pain as suddenly a hissing, spitting line of toxic chemicals comes flying at the two of them._

_Their attacker catches it in their hand and wildly, blindly, through all of the smoke, slams it into Bloodhound's forehead, grinding a hateful, burning trail straight through their right eye, all the way down to their throat._

_Bloodhound screams and screams and screams, yet at the same time, they feel almost out of their own body._

_As though they are seeing their body reacting, can hear the screams of pain, yet can't feel it._

_They catch the line themselves, yank it through their attacker's clenched hand, and turn it back up into their face._

_They feel blood spray all over them as the chemicals spurt out, practically melting their enemy's flesh into goo._

_Bloodhound stumbles away from their body, kicking it away from them._

_They fumble around for a few seconds, holding their breath, looking for something, something very important._

_Then they finally find it._

_And they smash through the glass emblazoned with the red letters spelling "break only in case of emergencies."_

_They pull a gas mask through the glass shards, pull it over their face, feel a sense of relief as its cool darkness slips over their head, protecting them from the gas and from the rest of the universe, which had been weighing on their neck, pressing on their chest, and pawing at their heart since they were just a child._

_Now, the pain seems to fade away behind the mask, their face still burning, their skin on fire, but their mind clear._

_They now move through the gas with purpose._

_They crouch down and pull Geth's knife, now Armann's knife, baptized in the blood of his and their enemies, free from the dead man's face._

_They begin redirecting a flammable, highly toxic to humans gas through  out the ship, overriding fail safe after fail safe, cutting through vital wires and simply smashing data crystals that prevent forceful manual overrides of safety protocols._

_Then they leave, intending to go find anywhere where the gas wasn't being leaked quickly enough._

_Or to find anyone who was trying to escape._

_On the way, they stop for their Oculus, their Eye, the Eye of Odin._

_They slip off the gas mask just for a moment, pulling them on, ignoring the pain in their right eye._

_And suddenly they can see through the gases now leaking through most of the ship._

_They ignore the burning, squelching ache of their injured eye, and use the other one to see through everything, the smoke, walls, around corners._

_Two men charge at them in the hallway, not seeing them clearly, but knowing that they are there._

_Bloodhound darts to the left, catches one by the arm, holds it up, and stabs him viciously in the armpit._

_In the same motion, they throw his body to the ground, tripping up the other._

_And as he falls down, they catch the center of the back of his head with the tip of their knife._

_He falls to the ground, instantly dead, with a bright red gash beaten into the back of his skull._

_Bloodhound doesn't stop moving._

_They don't stop moving for the rest of that night, in the cold silence of space, where no one hears the screams._

_They keep moving forward, killing anyone they come across, their eyes and face blank behind the mask, which protects them from more than the gases that flow through the halls._

_At last, they come upon Dallas, who has a mask on, and is trying to get into an escape pod._

_Their eyes lock onto one another, although the gas masks disguise what both are feeling._

_Dallas raises his pistol._

_But Bloodhound, who doesn't hesitate, will not hesitate now or ever again, throws their dagger._

_And with deadly accuracy, despite their injured eye, it sinks itself directly between Dallas' eyes, shattering the mask and filling the eyes with blood._

_And the gun drops limply in his wrist._

_Bloodhound walks over to his corpse, pinned to the wall by Armann's dagger._

_They pull it free and the man's body oozes onto the floor bonelessly, like a pathetic mannequin._

_They stare at it for a moment._

_"Told you I could kill you with one eye closed."_

_Then they move on._

_They are not "girl" or "child" or "native."_

_They are not beautiful, covered in blood, flesh, and viscera. With a disfigured face and a mutilated eye._

_Nor are they a small, crying child anymore._

_Or even the leader of a noble clan of warriors._

_Now they are one thing, and one thing alone._

_A hunter._

_A murderer, a criminal, a terrorist, whatever else they are called, they are more than any of these things, a blood hunter._

_No longer one who runs away, hiding, from predators, but a predator themselves._

_No longer one who submits and grovels and begs for their life, but who does not fear for their life, who lives by their own generosity, by their own daring, strength, and cunning._

_No longer a child, a young person, who strives to be loyal and kind and compassionate and hope for things to get better, but one who fights because no one will ever offer kindness or decency to those who hope for it._

_Not one who prays for a god to be merciful, but one that does not fear death, and knows that the gods are merciless, but so too must their followers be to survive in a godless universe._

_The name their people had given them so long ago seems so perfect now._

_Perhaps it is the old Atli, who, upon seeing Polan, unconscious but still alive, takes him and throws him into one of the other escape pods and launches him out in space._

_But it is Bloodhound, not the one his family had known, or the one Armann had loved so deeply, but the Bloodhound with a scar gouged into their face, burning through their eye, that follows him out in their own escape pod._

_And turns around, using one of the only twelve shots the escape pod has, to blow the ship into pieces, lighting the gas and creating a ripple effect of chemical reactions that send them marginally faster through space, their pod already turned away from what they'd done, heading for the nearest anti IMC planet._

_It is Bloodhound who doesn't look back._

_Bloodhound, who never got to say goodbye, and refuses to do so now._

_Bloodhound, who chooses to hunt animals, and people, for a living._

_Who participates in killing games for the amusement of others not out of necessity, for riches or for fame, but because they want to._

_And because they n_ _eed to inflict some of what they had suffered onto those responsible for their own suffering. Whether through direct or indirect action, the rest of the universe should suffer._

_Somewhere in that mess of a person, there must be something left._

_There must be someone who resembles Atli._

_But they are buried deep, where no one should be able to find them, beneath a mask._

Elliott runs, even though it kills him to do it. 

Bloodhound watches the man vanish somewhere above their head, to safety, to victory, to life.

They watch the orange sky, wondering if this is the death the Allfather had always meant for them to have.

In the ring.

So like the one that was supposed to have killed them, all those years ago. 

Holthas, Kings Canyon, what's the difference?

What had they done in these years to justify the extra time?

Had they merely been struggling to survive in defiance of the Allfather?

How foolish.

Of course the gods cannot  be fought, cannot be bargained with.

They close their eyes and let their heart, beating hard in their ears, sound like drums instead. 

_Win for us, Elliott._

They grasp for their knife, knocked out of their hand by the fall, but graciously not too far. 

They yank their glove off, wanting to feel its blade.

Wanting to feel the strand of Armann's hair, one last time. 

_See you soon, Armann..._

They hold the dagger over their heart. 

_Goodbye...Elliott._

_And thank you._

_For everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh the end is nigh the end is nigh and I can't wait to write more edgy fanfics, but for Octane.
> 
> But for now, I must finish my edgy Miragehound. 
> 
> Anyway notes:
> 
> \- Wow, this one was rough to write. I had...so many conflicting ideas, and almost forgot to mention soooo many things, and had to edit, re-edit, and re-write portions of it, I've been working on this since 3 am, it's now 8 am, my life is meaningless, anyway I'm tired as hell. 
> 
> \- where the fuck is Caustic? I ask myself this every time I get in a game with one. 
> 
> \- you like what i did there, bringing back all those symbols and shit i mentioned way back in chapter 13? yeahhhhhh, that's the fun of making shit up as you go along, sometimes things just fall perfectly into place and then you go WHOO, sudoku. 
> 
> \- god i'm so tired, i'm done with this author's note. thanks so much for reading, fam, this has been a journey. poor mirage, poor bloodhound, that's the end of bloodhound's backstory! took us forever but here we are!


	27. I Feel Most Alive When Rapidly Approaching My Own Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was short, but honestly, I feel that that's all I want to explore of Caustic...for now. I think he's interesting, I may write more stuff for him. But he's not the focus of this fic, really just supporting cast, so I'll get to him some other time.

_"Alexander, have you been naughty again?"_

_He shakes his head stubbornly._

_"That's not what your father tells me."_

_"He's a liar."_

_"That's a horrible thing to say about your father."_

_"And that's a...horrible thing to lie about."_

_"Always so clever," the tired woman sighs in her hospital bed. "Always the victim, aren't you?"_

_Alexander scowls._

_"You never take my side."_

_"You're never on the right side, Alexander."_

_"Always so clever."_

_She scowls back at him._

_They have a very similar scowl, with the same narrow eyes, same wide brow, same harshly cut noses._

_After a few moments, they both crack a smile, the smoky, angry tension dissolved instantly._

_"You can't keep insulting teachers like that, no matter how wrong you think they are," Marina Nox says._

_"They're wrong, and they should know it," Alexander grumbles. "They think they know everything. I hate my supplemental astronomy teacher. He doesn't know a thing about xenobotany or phytologically induced pathology and he talks to me as though I'm a child."_

_"Goodness, who taught you those words?" his mother murmurs to herself, staring at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused, her face pallid. "Silly boy..."_

_"I've done extensive research on the subjects myself," Alexander says self-importantly. "I've studied the psychotropic properties of the Damasca Hibiscus, written and compiled multiple notes on glioblastomas and all known metastatic diseases that have developed over the past one hundred years in the region. I've given all of my data to the doctors and have begun working on obtaining medical files from surgeons who have experience working on tumors contracted from the subtropical zone you were conducting research in. Next weekend I'm even going to go to a planet on the outer ring of that system and gather samples-"_

_"Isn't your science fair next weekend?" she murmurs._

_He waves her off, looking annoyed._

_"I didn't sign up for it, I only did the project for class. Got a C, the teacher said I barely tried. But I had more important stuff to do. Anyway, I think you'll be most interested in my research on unrestricted cell growth on Solace-"_

_"That's enough, Alexander," Marina Nox groans. "I have enough headaches as it is."_

_Alexander's eyes narrow, his face sullen._

_He doesn't say anything for a while, just staring at his mother, pale and deathly thin, with pronounced cheeks, her head shaved bare, wrapped in medical gauze._

_After a while, she asks him, "How are your classes? Have you made any friends?"_

_"No," Alexander grumbles. "Other people aren't worth  my time."_

_"That's a horrible thing to say."_

_"It's true. They're so shallow. They think I'm ugly and call me fat and make fun of me for the things I like. They're pointless little creatures. Bugs are more interesting than them."_

_"So I've heard. You know your father is afraid of them, please try to be less...vindictive."_

_"He never takes my side either."_

_"You have to be patient with people."_

_"Why? What's the point of them?"_

_"You're one of them, you know."_

_"I never asked to be!"_

_The boy, only twelve after all, looks adorably annoyed with the fact that he has to exist as a human among humans._

_Despite how weak her body feels, and how woozy her head is, Marina Nox giggles, given a slightly reprieve from the pain, the illness that defined her life for the past two years._

_"Such a silly boy."_

_"Stop calling me that!"_

_"Why not? You're too young to be as smart as you are, Alexander."_

_"Why do you always call me silly then? I'm smart!"_

_"You are, but it takes maturity to understand what to do with that intelligence. It takes maturity to see the value in other people's strengths and weaknesses. Not all people can be intelligent in the way you are, darling dearest. Patience will come with time."_

_"But I'm too impatient to wait for that."_

_She lets out a full-bodied laugh that seems to almost hang in the air like a cloud of joy over the two of them, filling the space with its golden glow._

_For just a moment, Alexander remembers what it was like when she wasn't here, in the hospital, hooked up to tubes, being scanned by machines, being injected with drugs he knows by heart by now._

_He remembers when she didn't look like she was forty nine, going on fifty, when she was his young, sprightly thirty five year old mother, with an iron-rimmed voice made for singing, shouting, and rattling off data sets to him as they conducted field experiments in the forests of Harmony._

_She had laughed a lot then._

_Laughed at him, trying to take "serious" research notes, laughed at her husband, who was always sleeping in a field somewhere, being crawled on by ants._

_Laughed and laughed and laughed her heart out the nights they did no research at all, just roasting hot dogs and marshmallows and telling nonsensical stories about monsters that lived in the forests of Harmony, ones with big rain jackets and big rain boots._

_Stupid, of course. Completely unscientific and unprofessional, and their research is most likely corrupted._

_But for some reason, for these occasions, Alexander doesn't mind._

_Research with his mother is...pleasing. Even if it's inaccurate and inefficient._

_She loved working in the field._

_Loved collecting plant samples and studying the chemical processes that affected soil mixtures and plant nutrients._

_Was keenly interested in carbon based life forms in general, including humans._

_He'd never understood that, but when she was there, humans seemed a lot more...tolerable._

_But now she's not there._

_She's never there._

_Even right here and right now, looking at her, Alexander Nox wonders if she's really here._

_Her eyes are always so distant._

_Watching the TV, they glisten just a little whenever a plant comes into view, whenever a baby cries, or a dog barks._

_They shine whenever trees and sunlight and flowers are shown, even if they aren't the main focus on the screen._

_They're so pale and empty, most of the time._

_It takes a glimpse of life in a TV screen to make her focus._

_And then she seems to realize that she's still hospital bound, still sick, still dying, and then she's off in a distant world again._

_Far away from him and everyone else._

_"I want you to come home," Alexander blurts out._

_His mother looks at him, really looks at him now, eyes snapping back to life, full of longing._

_"I hate that you're never there. I have-I have so much work I need you to review! Data sets to check for me! In-independent variables that I think have changed the na-nature of my experiments! And I'm- I'm tired of reading about metastasis! I want to read about-about flowers, not toxic spores and stupid, ugly, poisonous moss!"_

_He can hear his voice cracking, and he hates it, wishes his stupid little growing voice would stop it, but the words are coming out too fast, spilling out of him as though she were drawing them out of him with a tube._

_"I hate Dad."_

_"You don't."_

_"I do. He just sits at his desk or in his bed, crying like a big stupid baby. He forgot to make me lunch three times this week. He hasn't done laundry in months, I've been doing all of it! He's useless."_

_"Don't say that about your father!" she snaps._

_He flinches, but he can't seem to stop himself from speaking, his heart aching, full of missing and hurt as deep as an unexplored ocean._

_"I don't want you to be here anymore! You don't belong here! You look so-so unhappy and miserable and you think I don't see it, but I'm not stupid. You want to walk out this door more than anyone else! You want to-you want to be well again, but all you ever do is tell me to shut up about medical treatments and things I discovered. It's not fair! It's not fair, Mom, I don't understand why you can't just let me help you-"_

_The anger melts from her face, the tension relaxing back to apathetic exhaustion._

_"You're just a kid, Alexander. There's nothing you can do."_

_"Why are you giving up?"_

_"I'm sick, my boy. It's not my fault."_

_"That's stupid. That's stupid, Mom."_

_"You don't understand," she whispers. "That sickness does something to you. It changes you. No matter how strong you are, no matter how much you want to fight it, get up and walk out the door, you're a prisoner of your own body. You can't understand. You're so young, so...full of hope. So full of energy. You don't know what it's like, to feel  your own mortality. That is maturity, Alexander. That is growing up. Realizing that you only have so much time left, and doing what you must to ensure that your brief stay in this timeless universe was worth it."_

_"I know it hurts, Mom, I've seen it on your face," Alexander cries, his little hands clutching at the arm rests of her hospital bed. "I wasn't saying- I just- I don't want you to go."_

_He bows his head, suddenly terrified._

_He'd uttered the words aloud._

_He can never take them back now._

_She knows now, she shouldn't know._

_Dad had said not to talk to her about these things. Not to remind her of the tickling clock over her head._

_He stares determinedly downwards, not wanting to meet her eyes, afraid that he will do something stupid like cry._

_"I know, Alex. I don't want to go. I wanted to be here to see you go to middle school!" she says, her frail hands stroking his hair, his cheeks, pulling his head to her chest. He lets her, his shoulders relaxing a tad. "I wanted to see you go to high school, go through puberty, start smelling bad, sassing me even more than you already do. I wanted to see you start making friends with people as weird as you, maybe get you to join a club, take you to a math-a-thon or a bunch of science fairs. All of those things, I wanted to see you do. But sometimes, crazy things happen. Sometimes, life doesn't go the way you want it to."_

_"Don't tell me that crap," Alexander yells, pulling away from her, furious again._

_His face is scrunched up and red, his chin trembling. He looks as though any second he's about to start throwing things at her, kicking at the machines keeping her alive. In his logical mind, he knows why he can't, but in his childish, rash brain, she is the enemy. She is the one who refuses to fight, and the machines are the ones keeping her locked away in this cold and sterile dungeon. They're hideous and crude to him, stinking of antiseptic, a smell he will never get out of his nostrils no matter how long he lives._

_"I don't want to hear it! It's stupid, to just accept life as it comes, we're smarter than any other species alive in this galaxy! We should be immortal! We should live forever! We should never die, never get sick, never get lonely, never feel sad, about anything! We should be the masters of-of everything! That's what you used to do, remember? You used to be a scientist! You weren't supposed to get sick and die, you were supposed to be smarter, be cleverer! What's the-the point if we aren't right about anything?"_

_He yanks open his backpack and spills its contents out all over the floor._

_Pens, papers, markers, a few textbooks, a water bottle, and dozens of blueprints blanket the floor, spilling out under her bed and under his chair._

_"What's the point in studying or learning anything? What's the point?" he yells._

_"What a mess," she sighs. But she is smiling. She has the nerve to smile at him when he's more distraught than he's ever been._

_"Stop smiling at me! Stop looking at me like that-like you know everything! You've always acted like you know everything, when you never knew anything!"_

_"That's a part of growing up too, little Alex."_

_He kicks at the messy contents of his backpack, throws that around too._

_Begins to throw tissue boxes and medical gloves around._

_Rips up paper that had fallen out._

_Dumps out the recycle bin and trash bin._

_And she keeps smiling at him._

_Even laughs, infuriating him even more._

_"What's wrong with you?" he bellows at her. "Why aren't you- why are you-why are you being so mean?"_

_His voice cracks again._

_And he can't stop the tears, no matter how hard he tries._

_They begin to cascade down his cheeks, too fast and slippery for him to stop._

_The smile fades from her face, leaving only sadness there._

_She holds out her arms, and he dives into them, wrapping his arms around her skinny back, hating how small and skinny and frail she seems, remembering when she'd been twice her current weight, when she'd been healthy and energetic and seemed smarter than everyone else in the world._

_"I'm sorry," she whispers, rubbing his back soothingly. "I'm not trying to be."_

_He buries his face in her neck, crying into her gown._

_"Don't go. Don't go, I won't know what to do. I need you."_

_"I'll try, Alex. But humans don't live forever. We don't. We can't. And to be honest? We shouldn't. Life is made meaningful by being as short as it is. If we had forever, nothing would get done, now would it? Our lives are so small, so finite in the eye of the greater forces of nature. Of life, and space, and time, all concepts we created for ourselves, to make sense of our experiences. Cry as long as you have to, there's no shame in feeling sad. In feeling lost, confused, afraid. There are so many things I want to teach you, things I want you to understand about me, about  my own life. But I don't have the time. We never have enough time. And that's what makes life's greatest moments so great. That's what will make you a man, someday, Alexander Nox. Understanding that when life is short, your desires, your hopes, your dreams, they only have to matter to you. They don't need to change the world or society, they only need to change you. Make you the person you want to be, no matter how small, how insignificant. We live for ourselves, Alexander. We live for the sake of knowing life. And when we die, whenever that is, whether it's in a week, or eighty years, do not be afraid, for we are dying because we as a species must also know death. Humans are made of curiosity, the thirst for knowledge. We must know everything. Even the things that we fear will hurt us, will break us irreparably."_

_"I don't want to know what life without you is like."_

_"The time we have...and the time we are apart...will change you. It will affect you in ways even you could never foresee. Don't be afraid of change, Alexander. And don't be afraid of living or dying, because we humans may not last forever, but our hearts can experience forever in just a moment. We can live forever in moments like these, my silly little boy. And I'll always love you. Even when I'm...gone, I will love you forever."_

 

Caustic breathes heavily in one of the bunkers, hunkered down with a med kit, jabbing himself in the arm over and over again, feeling weak.

He'd still been looting the men's corpses when he'd heard the gunshots at the hangar bay. 

He'd attempted to hurry over, his gas traps packed and ready to be moved, but had been greeted with an aerial bombardment, which had completely blocked his path and forced him to run the opposite direction.

The explosions had damaged his suit, tearing holes through it and piercing his back with bits of metal.

Now he strips off the suit entirely, down to his less thick black under coat and pants. 

His mask will be much less effective without his full attire, but there's no helping it. 

He scuttles over to the other side of the bunker, trying to see if he can get a glimpse of his team. 

But the gunfire had stopped some time ago.

And it had stopped right after, so it seemed, a massive explosion at the northern facility, where he had left his big trap. 

Someone had obviously triggered the trap, most likely a hostile, or perhaps Mirage being a forgetful idiot, but he doesn't know if they had died or simply been injured. 

And the area is eerily quiet. 

He stumbles back to the boxes and huddles behind them, knowing that Makoa Gibraltar, a man he'd tried very, very hard to kill last Apex Game, was most likely on his way to find him right now. 

He tosses down a barrel at two of the three entrances and sits between them, doing his best to relax as the med kit takes effect. 

He hopes that Bloodhound is still alive, if only because he severely doubts Mirage could win on his own. 

Then he chides himself, remembering that the odds of winning the Apex Games were greatly improved if the three of them survived together. 

His legs are burning, feeling as rubbery as noodles, but he fights the sensation, stumbling to his feet, Devotion clenched in his hands.

He must head to the hangar. 

Even if his team mates are dead, the area is still better fortified than here. 

And he will not use the last of his traps to defend such a poorly defensible area.

He packs his traps back up again and begins to jog in that direction, looking furtively around.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gibraltar run around a corner, right to the place he'd just left, his damnable shield up. 

He moves as quickly as he's able, right knee giving out a little, but legs refusing to stop. 

But then he hears the ring closing warning.

And he sees it approaching to his right, skirts away from it, just barely making it out of the ring, pausing just outside the still smoking doors of the room he'd booby-trapped.

As he's watching the ring waver just a foot away from him,  he realizes that there's someone lying on the ground, inside the ring, some distance away.

Even though his legs feel jittery, he is seized with the morbid curiosity to see if they have anything good on their body. 

He jogs over, wincing at the combined pain of the med kit and the ring. 

Then he stops, a little shocked.

It's Bloodhound. 

Bloodhound without their mask, their mouth bloody, their red hair clumped together with dried blood. 

The ground is cracked beneath them. 

He suspects Bloodhound might've been thrown off the roof, and concludes that their jump kit must have been broken sometime beforehand. 

He takes a knee, his legs hurting, the ring burning him, but not enough to force him back up again. 

He feels their pulse, feels it still beating, if only a little. 

Can see their chest struggling to exhale. 

They are as good as dead.

He should loot their body and then leave before he joins them.

He methodically begins to pull their backpack off, rooting through it for ammo, med kits, and shields. He takes their shields and puts them on over himself.

Then Caustic stands up to leave, to run back to safety. 

But even though Bloodhound is out of the competition, cannot, will not be revived, he is slow to leave. 

He takes one step, a slow, wavering step, then jerks as though he'd been stung. 

He shakes indecisively for a few moments, in pain and getting more frantic by the moment. 

What is he doing?

He has what he needs.

It's time to go. 

And yet...there is something stopping him from moving.

Preventing him from following the blood trail into his trap room. 

What's wrong with you? the logical side of his mind asks. 

_I can't leave._

Why not? You are in pain. You will lose if you stay.

_I can't move._

Why not? Are you injured?

_A little._

But not enough to prohibit movement. 

_No._

So what is the problem?

_Something won't let me leave._

Is it Bloodhound?

_It can't be, Bloodhound is incapacitated and of no use anymore. I should leave._

So why aren't you?

_I can't._

Well you can't stay. Clearly, you must go. Something asks you to stay. Or perhaps, it is simply asking that you do not leave Bloodhound behind.

_Ridiculous. They are useless. Their life has ended. They have lost._

You do not have time to question yourself. If they are the only variable that you can see which prevents you from leaving, then take them with you. We do not have time for this discussion. There is only do or do not. 

He chooses to do. 

Although he has no idea why, he lifts Bloodhound's unconscious, broken body into his arms and carries them, back screaming, aching with pain, into the ring.

He drops them rather roughly on the ground, just barely out of the ring, next to the entrance of the northern facility. Inside, he can see another body lying on the floor just beyond the doors, probably the unlucky hostile who'd triggered the trap. 

He glances back down at Bloodhound.

Marvels at their scarred face. 

He wonders what had given them that scar.

If it makes them stronger or weaker. 

If their life had been meaningful to them. 

It doesn't matter, he supposes. As it has just been terminated.

But he still can't help but wonder.

Bloodhound is still a mystery to him, a force of nature, an insect he hadn't been done studying yet. Even though they are dying before him, he can't help but still admire that it had taken a great fall to put them out of commission. 

All of these Apex Games, all of those championship wins, the raw power they exerted, the utter fearlessness in the way they hunt... he supposes that even those below him deserve some dignity. 

Some...dare he say, respect.

He puts Bloodhound's gun to their chest, pulling their arm up over it. 

He does not say a word to them, only nodding, as he stands up. 

Then he looks toward the other hangar bay. 

There are small pools of blood leading over to its doors, which are closed shut, as though by someone attempting to fortify themselves within them. 

He knows Gibraltar is coming soon, might already be there, and whoever had killed Bloodhound, and maybe Mirage, must be there too. 

The Ring had stopped temporarily, but in another hour, it will begin to move again. 

He must go. 

He turns towards the hangar. 

But he's only taken a few steps when he hears gunfire.

And then he ducks as bullets bounce off the metal walls behind him, only narrowly missing him. 

He charges into the northern facility without looking back and slams the doors shut, tripping over the body of a young black woman as he does so. Dismissively, he just steps over it, gun out, pointed at the doors. 

He backs up as quickly as he can, knowing who's about to charge in through the doors, with his shield up. 

He throws down his gas traps to either side of the doors, puts one directly behind him. 

He tries to run to the stairs to get the high ground, but Gibraltar bursts through the entrance before he can, his gun blazing.

Two shots from his Peacekeeper melt his shields almost immediately. 

Caustic turns quickly and shoots at his gas canisters, setting two of them off, missing the third, which activates on its own when Gibraltar passes it. 

The big man shoots at him with his Peacekeeper again, not fazed, simply holding his breath and moving through the spewing gas, eyes fixated on him.

He tries to stumble up the stairs, but his entire body jerks, with surprise and pain, when the Peacekeeper lands a glancing shot on his gun, blowing it to pieces and shattering his left shoulder. 

Part of the spread also shoots through his mask, mangling it to the point of uselessness. 

He yanks it off and howls as he falls onto his knees, body painfully sliding down the stairs a little, fingers clutching at his shoulder wound, slippery with his own blood. 

Gibraltar approaches him slowly, perhaps injured or simply taking his time. 

"Brother, this just wasn't your fight." 

The man is smiling, uninjured and completely confident, a team of one. 

He had survived all of this time, yet again, and had been dealt with the handicap of having no one to support him, yet here he stood, having bested Caustic in a fair fight. 

Bitterness coils in Caustic's chest, filling his lungs with hatred. 

His eyes burn as Caustic puts his Peacekeeper on  his back and pulls out a hook. 

"Sorry, brother." 

Caustic grits his teeth. 

But as Gibraltar leans forward, pulling back his arm, prepared to deliver the killing blow, Caustic rips out his last gas canister. 

Even though he knows what it means, his spite is too powerful, his anger too strong to be overwhelmed by his cool and calculating logic. 

And that part of him may know that in a hopeless situation, there are only so many ways out. 

_I will not go down alone._

He releases the canister and throws it down below their feet. 

It sprays instantaneously, engulfing the both of them in poisonous gas.

Caustic holds his breath even though he knows it's pointless. 

He lunges at Gibraltar with the last of his energy, manages to grab him around the legs and throw him down onto the ground, where he gasps and unintentionally breathes in even more of the gas. 

Gibraltar tries to throw him off, but he holds on tenaciously, refusing to let him escape.

Thinking of Bloodhound.

Wondering if this is what they felt, or if it had been instantaneous, if they would simply...slip away from this life as easily as a sand particle in the wind. 

Wondering...if...Mirage...could...win...alone...if he was still alive. 

His eyes flutter closed. 

His body begins to shake, and Gibraltar's body stills. 

His lungs burn, his organs feel like they're melting.

Darkly, he wonders if this is karma catching up to him, not just for gassing Mirage earlier this game, but all those years he'd used others as test subjects. 

If...there is a god, and he's smiling right now, laughing at him, chuckling at the dark poetic irony- 

_"Two squads left."_

_Alexander turns to a small, slender young child standing beside him, staring at him._

_He wipes the tears off his face quickly._

_"I wasn't crying,"  he says immediately._

_The child, pale, with red hair, and a scar running through their face, smiles kindly._

_His mother smiles back._

_"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"_

_"They're not my friend!"_

_"No, I'm not," the child says. "You don't have friends. Only squad mates. And there's only one left."_

_Alexander gasps for breath._

_His mother pats his back._

_"Are you ok, dear?"_

_He falls to the ground._

_Beside a hole._

_Six feet deep, cut rectangular._

_Father crying behind him, hand on his shoulder._

_A bouquet of Mother's favorites in his hand._

_He throws it away, just to see what his father will do._

_The man slaps him._

_The red-haired child watches him with sad eyes._

_"You're an evil child," the man sobs. "You never loved her!"_

_Alexander shoves his father in the chest._

_"I never loved you!" he shrieks. "I only ever loved her, don't you dare say-how could you say-?"_

_He's sitting at his grandmother's kitchen table._

_She is trying to speak to him, telling him she's very pleased with his grades, but he doesn't listen because she's insignificant._

_Because her words will never have the same power that his mother's had._

_No one's words ever will, and so he might as well ignore them._

_The red-haired child is sitting at the table with him._

_"One left," they repeat. "You and I let him down."_

_"I didn't let any of them down!" Alexander screams at them, at his father. Who had come to visit him on his sixteenth birthday, with his new girlfriend on his arm, as though taunting him with how quickly he moved on. "I did what I was supposed to do! Now it's- it's time for everyone else to pull their own fucking weight!"_

_He's watching a rat writhing and struggling to breathe, trapped in a plastic box full of gaseous pesticide._

_Spraying it into a room of coworkers, watching them clutch at their throats, their eyes bulging, pleading with him._

_But he's smiling beneath his mask._

_He's watching with cold, analytical eyes, but his mouth is grinning in a decidedly biased manner._

_The child watches him._

_They watch without a word._

_But he does hear his mother's voice, echoing in his head._

_"What have you done, my boy? My silly little boy?"_

As he begins to loose consciousness, he sees Bloodhound walking towards him in the smoke confidently, knife in hand, as he had seen them do many times before, with their enemies. 

No longer a child, but the Bloodhound he had known.

Who had forced him to respect them. 

Forced him to see them as something more than an expendable team mate. 

"Where your mother went, people like us cannot follow."

They throw the knife.

And as it hits him, his vision goes black, and his external senses turn off. 

_"Nonsense," Alexander whispers._ _The two children sit side by side on a swing set where Alexander had once fallen off of, after being dared to climb it by a crowd of screaming boys. "There is no afterlife."_

_"Perhaps not. But why not believe in an afterlife? Even if you're wrong, it makes no difference now, does it?"_

_"I guess not."_

_"Nothing to be done but enjoy this moment."_

_"Why did you die, Bloodhound?"_

_"It was fate. Why did you die?"_

_"Bad positioning."_

_"Well I suppose the two of us are fools either way."_

_"I suppose."_

Caustic lets out one last wheeze as the gas fills his lungs, and his eyes roll back into his head. 

Outside, the announcer booms: "Two squads remaining." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo boy, now you know where Caustic was! 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> \- it is now...a 1v1. good luck, mirage. 
> 
> \- Caustic respects Bloodhound. Yes, I was making a reference to one of Bloodhound's finishers, with the mention that Caustic lays their gun over their chest. And yes, I do think those two would get along in canon, superiority complex aside. They're both serious, enjoy murdering people, and are pretty edgy. 
> 
> \- Caustic also strikes me as someone who experienced death close and personal as a child? And that's why he has such a flippant attitude towards it now? Again, I can't explore this too in depth just yet, because I feel like it seriously would deflect the story a lot. But I will, later. 
> 
> \- anyway, once again. thanks for all the wonderful comments! even if all you have to say is, this is cool, i seriously appreciate it.


	28. You are the Apex Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let's be real for a second. 
> 
> A lot of the Apex Legends have won multiple games. 
> 
> But. I'm gonna go ahead and say that there's no way every single one of them have managed to avoid each other every time they've been in the ring together. So how do all of the legends have multiple wins without having managed to kill any of the other eight legends we know and love?
> 
> Well logically, it's a video game, so obviously death is never for keeps. But for fanfiction and lore purposes? Let's say you wanted to stick to canon, but not completely be dedicated to keeping it as realistic as possible. You'd have to fudge the rules a little. So my in universe explanation for why Legends can be in the same games, but not have to kill each other, is that they were taken out before getting into the top four. And because they've won games in the past, and are fan favorites, they are given the rare privilege of being able to be returned from the ring before dying. I've already mentioned how Pathfinder Plus, having the Legends actually know each other, and be able to converse about the game itself while still having it be semi realistic, is too good to completely discount. 
> 
> It just makes sense to me that although the rules are that you know, everyone must die, the unofficial rules are that popular legends who make the games more exciting are given special consideration. 
> 
> So to the people asking about this, my in universe explanation is that they act like the Apex Games are a bloody brawl...and they are. But the people in charge also like to "sell" particular iconic Legends. Which makes sense given that we see how Legends are treated like minor celebrities in universe, walking the red carpet and being highly scrutinized. 
> 
> And my out of universe explanation is that: Yes, some of the Legends know one another, but in situations where they don't make it to the top three, they wouldn't absolutely have to kill each other before that. So Bloodhound knows Wraith, having been on her team before and gone against her before, and Caustic knows Gibraltar, having tried to kill him before. It's all for funsies.

Mirage has no idea where Caustic is, if he's still alive or if he'd somehow gotten his stupid fatass lost on the way from one side of Artillery to the next, but he's going to assume he's on his own since he's been circling nervously around the west side hangar for at least thirty minutes, waiting for him to appear. And hadn't seen any sign of him. 

He has no idea what happened to him, only that the announcer said there were only two squads left. 

All he can figure is that Caustic had somehow run into the members of the other squad and dealt with them, but was not in a state to make it over here and help him. 

So he was, essentially, on his own. 

He's only ever felt this tense once in his life. 

The day of his brother's execution. 

But this is worse. 

Because he can feel his team's hopes riding on him, is still shuddering at the thought of what happened to Bloodhound, seeing it vividly in his mind in slow motion. 

He'd been firing at Bangalore, having finally managed to get a lucky shot through Bangalore's knee, sending the older woman to her knees, her teeth gritted, but her gun still firing. 

He'd lunged to the side for a brief reprieve, but then he'd heard Wraith land a particularly hard blow.

He'd turned around.

Just in time to see Bloodhound's body disappear over the edge of the building. 

He can still taste their blood in his mouth, is sickened by its coppery tang. 

Can still feel that desperate kiss on his lips, the bitterest he's ever tasted. 

He feels a little sick to his stomach at the memory, and has to slap himself across the face to force himself not to freeze.

Now is not the time. 

His team mates might both be dead or dying, but he can win this. 

He has to. 

All of this was for nothing if he doesn't. 

Even though it might be foolish, he stops waiting for Caustic. 

He doesn't want to give Wraith any more time than she's already had to heal herself and create a defensible position for herself. 

He looks up, trying to see passed the sunlight, to see if she's on top of the roof anywhere.

She doesn't seem to be there, or at least, isn't close enough to the edge for him to see her, which is reasonable, but there is a smoking supply package that had dropped right on the roof.

Just his luck.

He prays that she didn't receive anything too ridiculous, hopes that all she got was a shield cell, a knockdown shield she already has, and a turbocharger. 

His Peacekeeper hums to life as he opens up one of the side doors of the hangar. 

It slides open with a noisy creak. 

He fully expects Wraith to hear it, and throws in a decoy for good measure as he clambers over the door, one-handed, and onto the roof instead. 

_"When are you leaving?"_

_Warren looks up, eyes distant, as they always are after he's been working for too long._

_Out of all of his brothers, Elliott understands Warren the least._

_Talos' sense of humor makes sense to him, and he doesn't hide his emotions._

_Liam is bossy and loud and self righteous and is full of obnoxious self righteous opinions._

_But Warren is quieter. Studious._

_These are things Elliott always thought were easy to understand. But as the years go by, he's starting to understand him less and less._

_Liam is off saving the world, never coming home, never writing, making Mom worry._

_Talos is military, so they don't always know where he is or when he's coming home, but he at least comes home. He at least tells them what's going on in his life, even if he comes home infrequently and forgets to call._

_But Warren is always visiting home, always close, never too far. He stays the longest, and visits the most often._

_Yet Elliott knows the least about what he does. Knows him the least, despite their physical proximity._

_They seem like polar opposites at times, with Elliott's temper, recklessness, and cruel streak contrasting with Warren's easygoing demeanor, pacifism, and careful consideration for everything he says or does. Elliott's first gut impulse solves problems with conniving schemes and tricks to get out of honest work, or out of admitting he made a mistake. Warren always admits to his mistakes. He never schemes. Is never dishonest._

_Yet now, Elliott is filled with the strange desire to understand something about him._

_"Tomorrow."_

_"You going to develop more shields or whatever?" Elliott tries. He's really not sure how to talk to Warren, doesn't even really know the specifics of what he does._

_"Yes...But I don't know. I've gotten tired of developing defense systems for planets..." Warren sighs, looking out the window. "I want to make a difference in people's lives..."_

_"Protecting entire planets is making a difference..."_

_"I'm not protecting the people of those planets... I'm protecting corporate interests. Land that they own, factories they built. The slaves they keep, toiling away in their furnaces..."_

_Elliott rolls his eyes._

_"You're not going to start rambling about workers' rights like Liam, are you?"_

_"What do you have against the common people?" Warren asks. "Why would you defend corporations over individuals who're just like you...?"_

_"I'm not gonna be some grunt," Elliott snaps. "I'm gonna be_ someone _some day. The industrial laborers and plant workers are just lazy people who took any old manual labor job they could find. They were too stupid to go to school or to find their own way. They're just a bunch of...expendables. They don't deserve to be paid as much as people like you and me, who're smarter and develop technology they couldn't even understand."_

_"This isn't about whose salary is larger," Warren says, his voice calm, but rising. "It's about basic human rights. Basic human decency. Allowing people to work, live freely, and fulfill their emotional and psychological needs. People should be judged on more than their monetary worth and financially advantageous skill sets. The IMC does not respect human life."_

_Elliott scowls at his older brother._

_"So what? Are you running off to join Liam?"_

_He tries to say it casually, as though he doesn't care either way, but his heart clenches just a little at the thought, with a mixture of jealousy and hurt._

_"No. I must find my own way," Warren murmurs. "But I want to protect people. Not the interests they represent. But people. My technology...means a lot to me. But I want to know it is being used for good. Not to protect planets that develop powerful tools of mass destruction, or natural resources to fuel war ships. It's...not something I suppose you would care about. But it matters to me."_

_Elliott stares at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before turning away, trying to act nonchalant._

_"Whatever."_

Protecting people. 

All Warren cared about. 

He'd been so angry. About Liam. 

About Elliott's role. 

He'd never looked at him like he didn't know him, like he didn't want to know him, with so much alien rage in his eyes. 

He didn't look like their mother, or like Liam, or like Talos, or like anyone he'd ever seen.  

Elliott had never seen him so- 

Mirage snaps back into the present. 

Not the time. 

Who cares if he hadn't protected his squad mates? Hadn't protected Bloodhound? 

He has a job to do.

He must win. 

Cannot lose, not because he isn't ready to die, but because survival means victory. 

Peacekeeper glowing, he walks as quietly as he is able down the stairs. 

He stops, seeing Wraith with a Scout aimed at the door from the opposite stair well. 

He thinks about switching to his Wingman for distance, but then decides against it. The Wingman's narrow aim is too risky, and the Peacekeeper can reach far enough and inflict more damage with a more generous spread if he hits his shots. 

He takes aim.

But as soon as he does, her eyes flicker over to his. 

And her body becomes a stream of light, headed straight for him. 

He runs back up the stairs, hears her switching weapons. 

And then his blood freezes as the stairs fall apart behind him under the force of a massive shotgun blast that seems to displace all of the air around him. His ears buzz, thrum, as they feel the air waves coming off of its blast, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. 

_Is that a fucking Mastiff?_

Of all the fucking luck, of course that supply ship gave her a Mastiff- 

He ducks and slides across the ground in a panic as she dives over the gap she had made, and without hesitating, shoots at him again. 

She misses, due to his swift, instinctive dodge, but deafens him again with her shots. 

He can't win with the Peacekeeper. 

Even if he lands a shot, she just needs one hit to splatter him all over the floor. 

He crouches behind the upper roof room, trying to think. 

But his heart is in his throat, and he's not sure what to do.

She and her squad had seen all of his tricks.

They know about his clones, know about his cloaking technology. 

And he has no idea how, but she somehow always seems to sense when he's aiming at her. 

Or when he's  nearby.

So he strongly suspects that she will know not only that he is hiding nearby, but where he'll be coming from. 

And he can't currently win in a brute force, open 1v1, since he's severely outgunned.

And he'd seen what she'd done to Bloodhound in a hand to hand fight, so he doubts he'd last longer than five seconds with her in that arena...

_And what else was it, that you saw her do, Elliott?_

The voice in his head is soft, rational. 

Calm.

And sounds familiar, with an accent he'd grown to enjoy hearing quite a bit. 

He thinks about it, and reasons that it's better than nothing. 

It's a crazy idea, but it just might work. 

Elliott Witt, who joined the Apex Games for fun, for glory, maybe even for repentance, for a death wish, for freedom, sprints away from the wall just as Wraith comes around it. 

She shoots at his back, but misses.

As he vaults right over the wall.

And hurls himself into the ring. 

* * *

 Wraith watches in disbelief as the moron in yellow dives off the roof, his jump kit whirring to life, lowering him gently to the ground, where he begins to full out sprint into the ring. 

What on earth is he doing?

She'd expected him to send out a clone.

Maybe cloak himself, try to get behind her and land a lethal shot. 

She'd planned for that, ready to drop a grenade and immediately phase her way out. 

But instead of trying any of those tricks, or even just standing and fighting her like a man, he'd just...run. 

Is currently running through the ring, in zigzags, worried about being shot.

She does consider it, but the range of the Mastiff isn't that long, plus she has a limited amount of shots.

Much better to engage at a closer range.

She dives after him, Mastiff in her palms. 

Just for contingency reasons, she throws down a portal and goes into phase. 

She follows him for some distance, then places down the exit of the rift. 

"You can't run!" she shouts after him. "You'll die like a coward, in front of everyone! Get back here and die with dignity!" 

"Never!" 

She lets out a grunt of annoyance, the ring digging into her skin, lighting it on fire. 

He is ducking and sliding, making it hard to even shoot at him. 

Soon, she will simply have to give up, let him die in here. 

It'll be disappointing, but at least she will still win, and if he tries to take one of her portals back, she'll just shoot him- 

He darts around the corner of a nearby building. 

She sprints after him, only for him to vanish in little bubbles of light before her eyes. 

She blinks in shock, her vision red with pain, her eyes darting all over the place, trying to find him. 

No way, that can't have been- 

There he is, that must be him, in his flimsy invisibility cloak. 

He's trying to flank her, had probably thrown out a decoy when he had vanished. 

He's coming behind her, this is the time. 

She raises her Mastiff, takes only a split second to aim, and fires.

Its powerful shells blast through the man.

Only he dissolves into bubbles of blue light. 

Wraith spins on her heels, Mastiff's muzzle pointed upwards frantically. 

There are other Mirages, all of whom look more realistic in the ring, colored more orange and glowing less brightly blue. 

She remains calm, not firing at any of them, knowing automatically that some of them, simply standing there, cannot be him. 

She stands tensely in the ring, muscles burning, fingers trembling, pain making it harder and harder to think. 

Then, just as she's about to give up and just leave, she sees something barely invisible, a ripple of distortion in the light, make a break for the portal she had left behind. 

Surely this must be the one. 

She blasts him in the center of the back. 

Sees him stumble and fall....and burst into a scattering of lights. 

He'd cloaked one of his own decoys. 

She grits her teeth in annoyance, and almost curses aloud.

But she doesn't get to say what she'd been thinking. 

Because one of the idle Mirages, standing still, cocking his hips, and winking cheekily at her, suddenly leaps into action. 

He dives at her, and punches her as hard as he can in her right forearm. 

In pain, and shock, she howls and her grip on the Mastiff loosens just a tiny bit. 

He aims at the Mastiff, and manages to knock it out of her hands. 

She bends down to get it, then feels him grabbing her by the shoulders and throwing her bodily away from it.

She scrambles back to her feet as quickly as possible, then lunges at him before he can grab the Mastiff.

But he isn't keen on wrestling her.

He's back up, and his Peacekeeper is out, to distinguish him from his clones. 

He dives backwards and shoots at her feet rather than her face, forcing her to look down, to fall to her knees and roll, while smoothly grabbing the Mastiff in her palms. 

She aims it in his direction once more, on one knee, prepared to fire.

But this time, he, the real Mirage, is gone.

He'd taken the portal. 

Nice try. 

She phases through it, expecting him to take a shot at her the second she appears.

A clever trick, and one that temporarily gave him the edge.

But not good enough to save him. 

She phases through her entrance portal, the Mastiff glistening in her tightly clenched fingers. 

With steady arms, she fires a clip into the real Mirage, waiting on the end of the portal to take advantage of her "surprise." 

But to her utter shock, when she lowers the weapon, he is gone. 

The decoy he'd sent through the portal is gone. 

But how could it have been a decoy?

She hadn't blinked once, she knows that one had been the real one- 

The ring begins to shrink even tighter. 

She walks just a little, keeping pace with the slow, but steady pace of the orange ring. 

Wraith frowns, looking around bemusedly.

Should she go back? Or wait? He's not going to be able to hide in the ring for long. All he can do is take the portal, or start running back, and she can easily take him down from here- 

Her train of thought is interrupted. 

Her mouth drops open with surprise. 

A hand has fallen on her shoulder. 

A warm, living, firm, dark skinned human hand, with muscles and flesh and callouses. 

She looks up.

And sees Mirage, it must be the real one, who has de-cloaked. 

Standing right in front of her. 

One hand is on her shoulder.

The other is firmly clasped around her Mastiff. 

Her eyes drop to his chest.

Which is bleeding, torn up by the shotgun shells she had shot through him. 

He grins, his teeth bloody.

He pulls her forward with both hands, yanking both her and the Mastiff to him. 

His leg comes up and kicks her hard in the stomach, shoving her back and forcing her to let go of her weapon. 

She stumbles back, just barely saving herself from her own portal, leading back into the ring.

She looks back, her hand instinctively going towards her hip, to withdraw her kunai. 

But she freezes.

Because the Mastiff, now in Mirage's hands, is pointed at her chest. 

"It's been a party," he says. "Too bad you weren't invited." 

He pulls the trigger. 

And her body is thrown back with the force of the powerful shotgun, thrusted several feet by the sheer power of its shells. 

Straight into her own portal. 

Which sends her, reeling and mortally wounded, back into the deadly orange zone. 

The pain of both the lethal wound and the ever-encroaching ring disrupting her already frayed concentration.

And the portal closes, leaving her on the wrong side. 

_"Are you sure you want to do this?"_

_It is late._

_Warren is in the kitchen with Mom._

_Elliott had wanted a late night/ early morning snack._

_But upon hearing his mother and sibling talking quietly to themselves at this hour, he had immediately stilled outside in the hallway, needing to eavesdrop._

_"This isn't really your field, I mean, personal shields can be highly volatile-"_

_"I've just asked for a change in division. They'll think nothing of it."_

_"But they'll be suspicious. They'll keep a closer eye on you..."_

_"I will do my job with diligence. That's all that matters to them. I'll be the model scientist for them, I promise, Mom."_

_"I know you will, I just also...worry about what it will do to you, mentally. I don't want you to...have to go through that alone. Heh. I guess that's just silly maternal instinct, trying to save your kid some pain..."_

_"Eventually we start picking and choosing our own brands of pain, though..."_

_She laughs. But it's a sad laugh, one Elliott knows well._

_"I guess even mothers can't protect their children forever. It's your decision. Just...know that I love you and will always support you. I'll always support all of you, you know."_

_"I know. We all know."_

_"Even Elliott?"_

_"Elliott must know, deep down, that you will always love him."_

_"I hope so."_

_"I know so. And I know, one day, he'll come around. He'll realize there are things worth protecting. People who need him, people who do not only love him, but are worth being loved by him. It'll take a while, because he's as stubborn as...well..."_

_"Me."_

_"...Yeah. He's stubborn. But one day, he'll realize he's a Witt. And Witts do the right thing. We protect. In our own, different, unique ways. But we take care of our own."_

_"Amen, my boy. We take care of our own."_

_He hears the clinking of wine glasses._

_Then he scowls and rolls his eyes in the dark, heading back for his bedroom._

_What a load of weepy, overly emotional nonsense._

Mirage drops the Mastiff.

His eyes go unfocused, drooping, then closing altogether.

He sways, entire body failing him as the organs of his chest, pierced with shotgun shells, scream out in agony. 

He can feel blood swiftly filling his lungs, can taste copper in his mouth again, this time his own. 

He stumbles, still on his feet somehow, away from the ring as it continues to close.

First he stumbles.

Then he crawls, on all fours.

And finally he drags himself.

With his hands, his fingers, his entire lower body and upper body protesting, to the last circle.

A foot in diameter, just a foot. 

He can't fit in it, not really, but stubbornly he continues heading for it. 

He drags the contents of his belly all over the floor, can feel the ring beating down on his head, wonders if this is how Bloodhound felt, being hunted by the IMC.

If they too were in this much pain.

Running from a fate that seems inescapable. 

But it doesn't matter.

Because it is no longer his willpower, but something  more powerful that keeps him going.

His hand slaps down into the circle, the one area of relief out of his entire body, still screaming in pain, inside the ring. 

And then suddenly, overhead, through out the entire island, but damn does it feel like someone, maybe God, is speaking directly above him, a voice announces: "You are the Apex Champions." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The NOTES of the stupid ass and tired author: 
> 
> \- I've gotten the Mastiff four times in Apex. One time, I did nothing for an entire game, then got two lucky kills on two guys, made my teammate think I was actually useful, and then proceeded to lose a fight to a Peacekeeper. Yeah, i don't wanna talk about it. The other three times I just got shot while trying to aim with it. 
> 
> \- Ugh, I hate full on action scene chapters because they always feel stiff to me personally. But it had to be done, so. Yeah, Wraith would kick Mirage's ass any day of the week, any time, but he's a sneaky little rascal and she's definitely more of a brawler who goes with her gut instincts. 
> 
> \- I'M SORRY WRAITH. I LOVE YOU I DIDN'T MEAN IT. 
> 
> \- foreshadowing, cough, foreshadowing (since ch. 13)
> 
> \- and no, I'm not tagging character death........because.............................(cut to black)


	29. Apex Legends Tracker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe you guys really thought I was killing off every character, lordie. 
> 
> I kill off my own characters, I don't kill off other people's. Usually.

This is her least favorite part of the Apex Games. 

Oh sure, the set up is busy. 

Interviewing new contenders, checking out potential applicants, accepting returning champions or competitors. 

Registering people's names, their weapons, their next-of-kin, funeral arrangements, financial situations. 

Announcing names, trying to hype up audiences with statistics and facts about competitors' accomplishments and skills, as well as new adjustments made to the game's rules or new innovations to the technology involved. 

Arranging the smooth operation of the island, creating a catalog and catalog number for every weapon, and which weapons will be introduced and when, with supply ship drops. 

Accounting for possible variations in the length of the game, since some games are longer than others, or more complicated, depending on where the ring was set to close in.  

There's also the difficult process of set up, sending down people skilled in hidden camera equipment, electronic wiring, and high tech sensors, and common laborers to do the dirty work of cleaning buildings and clearing out any natural excess that had built up from the last game. 

But all of those things, although messy to coordinate, and occasionally prone to disaster, are nothing compared to the clean up. 

She thankfully doesn't have to be here physically for very long. 

And she doesn't have to see too many stinking, rotting human corpses spread out all over the island, some days old, others only hours. 

She passes through Artillery, her nose wrinkled, high heels clicking against the bullet soaked asphalt. 

The temperature settings have been dropped to premium levels of low humidity and low heat, in order to prevent the more rapid decomposition of corpses, but she always manages to feel hot. Perhaps it's the psychological effect of being on an island. 

They are not on a rescue mission, but when she hears that Lifeline, aka AJay Che, is still alive, and able to be resuscitated, she tells them to go ahead and do that. 

An unofficial rule of the Apex Games this year, and for a few previous years, is that those whose names draw more attention, who have participated in past games and won quite a few, are sometimes allowed the option of being taken off the island and sent to medical facilities privately sponsored by Apex. 

One particularly popular champion this year, Pathfinder, a rather cheerful robot who, although new, had garnered quite a lot of attention, had already been repaired and was in the process of being shipped to the nearest data mining outpost for a backup and re-tuning of his processors. 

A woman less well known, but with an exemplary record with the IMC, Anita Williams, is currently in triage with a punctured femoral vein, but who is expected to make a decent, if rocky, recovery. In more uncivilized quadrants of the galaxy, she might be permanently disabled, her leg needing to be removed, or left disfigured and somewhat dysfunctional, but having an ex IMC military vet participating in the Apex Games, ex or not, did bring some sense of pride and accomplishment to the good IMC's name. 

A shame they hadn't won this year.

She had been expecting them to, with such a strong line up of two former winners, both well adept in combat, and a combat medic. 

But though their squad was in the top three, "Bangalore" had been outmaneuvered and taken off guard, as had Lifeline, who had the unfortunate fate of being poisoned by one of their more dangerous, and possibly controversial competitors. 

And their third squad member is nowhere to be found. 

Wraith, her true name unknown, had passed through a portal sometime during the end of game, one which was supposed to have lead out into the ring, ensuring a swift death, given her already wounded status at the time, but she hadn't emerged. 

She had disappeared, quite literally, from the island, not a trace of her anywhere on the planet. 

Perhaps the inter-dimensional skirmisher had simply decided she was done with the tournament and would come back when she was fully relaxed. 

As for the other squad...

Well, she certainly hadn't expected that outcome at all.

Caustic was a rather repugnant favorite.

Crude, condescending, and sadistic, he seems like a perfect competitor to hate. 

She suspects that he's so popular because people might just want to watch him die. Every year that he doesn't, the tension builds, leading more people to actively hope for his demise. She had almost let him die, just because the delicious irony of how he would've died would've been talked about for years, but had been called at the last moment by the Director, who insisted that he be revived. She hadn't questioned the order, but suspects that it might've been an excuse to raid his laboratory and obtain a part of his grisly research for themselves. This just offered the perfect opportunity for them to illegally obtain it under the guise of "Good Samaritan" laws. Or some other nonsense. 

All she knows is that she does her best to know as much as possible, while also knowing just little enough to be useless under subpoena. 

The man he had been fighting, Makoa Gibraltar, will also be treated and taken care of, since his family is well known, and she'll be totally honest, she rather respects that he'd managed to survive all of this time, alone, without his two squad mates to back him up. 

That had been admirable, and surprising. 

But more surprising had been one of Caustic's more well known team mates. 

Bloodhound she hadn't expected to go down, and in such a spectacular way.

But she supposes, if anyone is going to take them down, it would be Wraith.

They're currently in intensive care, but not because she has been ordered to keep them alive or because anyone in the world knows or cares about them. 

Just because she's personally a fan of theirs, has been ever since they arrived on the scene. 

Their whole "look" is intriguing, their mysterious, unknown "background" ripe for rumors and wild speculations that make the game more interesting. 

No one knows what they look like, although for the first time ever, she had been able to get a small, if extremely blurry and poorly defined image of their face during this match. She doesn't recall any moment in any previous Apex Games where Bloodhound's mask had been taken off by necessity. 

She'd explicitly forbidden any clear footage of their face to be shown to any viewers, wealthy or casual, if only to keep up the air of mystery around their character. 

But she herself pores over some of the photos and footage, intrigued by what some of their equipment had picked up on. 

And she'd seen it in person just minutes ago, covered in blood as they took their body out on a stretcher. 

Perhaps not the best angle of them, but she still thinks they look much different than she'd been expecting. 

In her mind, she saw Bloodhound as some kind of grizzled, beefy, square-jawed barbarian type, all rough angles, but they'd been rather cute. Almost angelic. 

Even on death's door, pale as a corpse, body crumpled up like tissue paper, blood on their face, in their hair, on their chest. 

But even as surprised as she had been, to see Wraith's squad lose, and to see Bloodhound be thrown off of a building, she had been even more surprised to see who had come out on top this year. 

The only one to have actually "survived" until the very end, who'd been clever enough to injure Wraith and knock her out of the ring, quite literally. 

The one lying on the ground right now, staring up at her with a mixture of confusion and pain. 

His handsome face scrunched up as he struggles to breathe, his chest a bloody mess of pink and red. 

She smiles.

"You!" he spits out. "The-the bitch in the lab coat!"

"The Apex Games are not for fools. Only assholes," she says. "Remember that?" 

She tips her hat to him.

"Excellent work, Mr. Witt. Never thought you had it in you. I thought perhaps your teammates would carry you. But in the end, you really clutched it for them, huh? Good game. Well played." 

"The knife!" 

"What?" 

"I want Bloodhound's knife. The one they always have. Before you...remove the body, give me their knife," he gasps, voice sounding choked, as if a great weight were being pressed down on his chest. "It was...important to them. Don't throw it away. Or sell it. Please." 

"The knife?" she says calmly. "Why ever would we give you their knife? It's their property." 

His eyes, wild and unfocused probably from pain and lingering adrenaline, suddenly snap to hers, looking desperate and a little hopeful. 

"What do you-?"

"We aren't in the habit of stealing other people's property unless they are deceased, and even then, it's only to send their belongings to family, which you are not, Mr. Witt." 

Relief colors his eyes. 

They close and he falls unconscious, head rather gracelessly flopping on the floor. 

She giggles a little. 

She isn't sure exactly what had transpired in the ring over the last 72 hours, but she does know that he had gone to great efforts to save Bloodhound, going further than any other competitor would go for their team mates. 

It had been confusing, and maybe a little frustrating at first, but it had grown on her by the end. 

Speaking from an unprofessional standpoint, she supposes she's just happy that she will see Bloodhound in the ring again next year. 

And hey, maybe Mirage will be in it too.

Maybe he'll become her new favorite. 

* * *

_Elliott's walking in Skull Town, its shabby walls splattered with blood, its tattered cloth tents rippling, their poles shaken by the wind._

_The ring, orange and foreboding in the distance, bears down on him, and he watches it tensely, fearfully._

_Yet it seems frozen in place._

_Sand particles hang in the air, glistening like dew drops on a foggy summer morning._

_He brushes several aside, shocked to see them float weightlessly through the air as gently and slowly as bubbles floating to the surface of a pond._

_He looks up and sees three suns in the sky._

_His heels kick up sand as he walks slowly through the town, confused but not particularly alarmed now that he knows the ring isn't approaching._

_He looks at the blood, at the bodies of people he doesn't know, their heads and stomachs open, their organs oozing out._

_He can't look at them._

_It's so easy to end lives, and yet, when all is said and done, the weight of the finality of his actions hangs around his neck, holding his head down._

_Their whispers haunt his footsteps, pull at the clothes of his back._

_"A price to pay," they seem to say. "Always prices to pay."_

_He comes across the body of the big man who'd shot Bloodhound, lying on its side, legs missing._

_The young girl who'd stolen his gun at the start, who had a friendly voice and a cheerful face. Neck bent unnaturally, throat torn out._

_The hard and serious young woman whose leg he'd shot. Back hunched over, her intestines exposed._

_He begins to run, not wanting to see any of this anymore._

_But when he opens his eyes, he's back on Tristan._

_And out of the corner of his eyes, he can see flashes of Kings Canyon's Artillery, can see the mountains, which are really nothing but mountains of corpses, all grey and indistinguishable from this distance._

_The Predators are staring at him with blank, doll-like mannequin faces._

_The entire world is watching._

_Only, Liam isn't the one he's executing._

_It's Bloodhound._

_Bloodhound, whose mouth is already dripping, whose spine is already broken, whose body is broken into pieces, but somehow still upright._

_Whose eyes are open._

_And staring at him with cold, hard hatred._

_"Those are your orders, little soldier."_

_He jerks away from the sight._

_And is horrified to hear his gun go off, just like it had, that day._

_Looks back, and sees this time it's Bloodhound who's paid for his stupid mistake._

_Who had survived everything that had been thrown at them, through out their entire life, only for his blind stupidity to get them killed at the last moment._

_"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."_

_Artillery's asphalt is hard beneath his hands and knees._

_He pounds at the ground with his fists, dragging his knuckles against the pavement, scraping them bloody._

_"I won," he says miserably. "I won."_

_"You're a sore winner."_

_He tenses, almost has a heart attack at the sound of that voice._

_A voice he hasn't heard in a long time, not in the waking world, or even the dream world._

_"What are you doing here?" he hisses. "Go away!"_

_His oldest brother, Liam, smiles at him._

_Wearing his raggedy ass ugly jeans, his lazy sweat-stained formerly white but currently gray T-shirt, and a heavy brown leather jacket signed by all of his high school buddies, and covered with stickers of meaningful quotes and nonprofit logos._

_His stupid ugly nerd costume, Elliott had always called it._

_"You brought me here. You must want to talk."_

_Elliott shakes his head like a child._

_"I don't. I never want to talk to you. You're the worst."_

_"That's so mean."_

_"It's just true. You and I never liked each other."_

_"I loved you very much. And you loved me. The only reason we had trouble liking each other was because we were two stubborn sons of bitches who could never see eye to eye on the smaller things. But just because we weren't friends, did not mean we didn't love each other, Elliott."_

_"I wanted you gone most of my childhood," Elliott shouts, his voice tinny and shrill. He'd always hated how his voice sounded when he was upset, but he can't seem to stop himself right now. "I hated living in your shadow. I felt like- like I could never live up to your potential. I  hated you for that, even when I was proud of you."_

_"Perfectly reasonable. Siblings can't help but compete. Can't help but wonder which of us is the best form of our parents, the very best legacy they could create and leave behind. But competition isn't the same as hatred. There's nothing wrong with friendly competition. Pitting the best against the best, and making every single one of them better for it."_

_His calm voice is infuriating him._

_"You think you're better than me. You're trying to make me think I'm- that you're above revenge or hatred or something. You should hate me for what I did. You should curse me and call me scum for everything I did. Especially what I did to our family. I tore all of us apart. Talos went away to finish your cause, and he's probably dead. Mom was forced to leave home. Warren is...somewhere in the universe, hating me. And you're here, in my head, just some stupid hallucination, because the real you is rotting in the dirt on some foreign planet somewhere, and that's only if they didn't blow up that planet at some point and scatter your bones all over the system. You have no right to be this calm!"_

_Elliott turns away from him, trying to run away, force himself to wake up by jumping off of something._

_But he feels Liam's hand on his shoulder._

_"It was an accident."_

_"I shouldn't have been there."_

_"Maybe I shouldn't have been there either."_

_"You were doing what you thought was right."_

_"And you were just a dumb kid who didn't know what he wanted yet. Who had lost his way, and needed help finding his way back. We all make mistakes, Elliott. Being an adult is making huge, catastrophic mistakes. Mistakes that will haunt you for the rest of your life, keep you tossing and turning every night. But as long as you're alive, Elliott, you have the power to change yourself. To become better than who were you before. Life is special because we evolve, because we have the capacity to become better. Not just better at math or science or understanding some deep philosophy, but better at taking care of others. Better at listening to people. Better at loving our own people, taking care of our species. Too many people in  our world thought that to explore, and conquer, space was the only evolution we ever needed. They think we can escape our own extinction by continually finding new resources, by putting our populations, our bodies, onto as many planets as possible, always expanding, always innovating. But there will come a time when the human race's time is up, and what will be left? The monuments of our greed? Of our fear of dying? Our fear of becoming nothing one day?"_

_Elliott pulls away, but Liam is in front of him now._

_He's hugging him close, pulling his head against his broad chest, fingers comfortingly stroking his hair, his head bent over his little brother's._

_He hasn't been hugged by Liam since he was very little, perhaps seven or eight._

_This feels too real._

_"Let-"_

_"Life is so short," Liam sighs. "A tired cliche, but a true one nonetheless. You think we're so different, that I'm so good, and you're so evil. But your natural instinct was to help the people of Castor. It was to save Bloodhound, even though they were just a team mate, and one you could've easily abandoned. And it was your natural instinct to offer me a way out, that night, before my execution. You may be rough around the edges, maybe a little sadistic, a little bloodthirsty, prone to a nasty temper when you're cornered. But you're also a lot of good things. Brave. Instinctively kind, even if you won't admit it. Compassionate towards others, even though it may take a while for you to get your selfish head out of your ass. Afraid of being evil, which is something most truly evil people would never be afraid of."_

_There's sand at their feet now, the asphalt gone, Artillery gone, Skull Town now in its place._

_Only, there is only one sun now._

_Liam finally lets go of him, smiling broadly, backing away from him._

_Elliott follows him without thinking, not wanting him to go._

_"And most importantly, I think, is that deep, deep down where you think no one can see it, yourself included, is the desire to do good. Now maybe your definition is good is a little warped, involves more murder than most people's. But you and I came from the same house, were raised by the same woman, the same brothers, are made of the same blood and similar DNA. And I trust you to be a good person. Just so long as you trust yourself. Just so long as you stop hating yourself, doubting yourself, and thinking that everything you think or do is wrong, and evil, because of something you did in the past."_

_His whole image is shaking, quivering, like a holo screen with bad signal._

_" I can still see it in you, Elliott. I can. And I know Bloodhound can too. That's why I like 'em so much."_

_Elliott blinks._

_"Bloodhound?"_

_"Talos and I always argued ferociously over whether you'd bring home a girl or a guy to meet Mom and the rest of us," Liam says with a grin. "Guess we were both wrong, huh?"_

_Like the sand particles, still suspended weightlessly in space, he begins to dissolve, his dark skin beginning to crumble, blowing away in the wind. Soon the only thing left of him are his eyes, dark and peaceful and full of affection._

_They blink and vanish in the hot, rippling desert air._

_Nothing but a mirage._

_Yet, for some reason, and perhaps it is the fever talking, the hallucination, the exhaustion, the pain, whatever you like, he gets the feeling that it was entirely real._

* * *

The first day or two hadn't been bad.

It's the third day when the pain really hits him.

And he's begging for painkillers, or for someone to shove a pillow over his face until he stops breathing.

After that, they increase the amount of painkillers. 

So he stops feeling the pain, but then he's nauseous and dizzy. They force him to eat, but he feels sick to his stomach as he does, and he vomits a lot of it back up. 

For a miserable five days, he feels stuck somewhere between life and death, in too much pain to be dead, but in too much agony to be anywhere but an inch from death. 

It's on the sixth day, when his wounds are mostly healed and they finally get him off of whatever loony experimental drug they'd had him on, that he finally starts to shift more towards uncomfortably alive, instead of uncomfortably close to death. 

And when he's finally coherent enough to start interacting with the world again. 

"The med kits we use in the ring are almost barbaric, you know," a cheerful young nurse in white says to him. "They do heal you, but they wreak real havoc across your entire nervous system. They also focus on regenerating only what is necessary to keep you alive. They often ignore or bypass smaller injuries and wounds that ultimately cause problems down the road when left untreated." 

Elliott only groans in response. 

"You should be happy this is all you have to worry about," the nurse says. "How do you think that young lady whose leg you tried to blow off feels?"

"I don't care," Elliott says sullenly. "She was trying to kill me." 

"And poor Ajay...she's down the hall, you know. She's been having a horrible time, I hear. They had to scrape shrapnel out of her skin before they could begin mending the burnt flesh. It's actually sort of lucky that Dr. Alexander Nox was poisoned by his own gases, because otherwise we wouldn't have an excuse to confiscate his research and create his own antidotes..." 

"Nox? You mean Caustic?" Elliott asks from his hospital bed, staring at his plump nurse. "That son of a bitch is alive?" 

"Yes. He and Mister Gibraltar fought in the northern artillery bunker. Caustic was shot a few times, was forced to remove his mask, and then in a last ditch effort, forced Gibraltar to breathe in his gas, at the expense of his own safety. But Gibraltar, I hear, was stabilized, was able to receive an adequate substitute for Caustic's antidote, and was ultimately sent back to his family. We got a report that he was able to shake off the worst of the gas' effects, none the worse for wear. And Caustic himself had some immunity to his own creations, from working with them for so long, and his antidote worked perfectly on him. Ajay's the one who's really having the hard time. But hey, she's lucky she got an antidote at all. And that none of the grenades dropped on her head went off close enough to do any really permanent damage." 

Elliott takes a moment to process this.

So Caustic had been taken out eliminating Gibraltar, the one-man squad, the only other threat to their win. 

He'd been the one to make sure that Gibraltar didn't take the win after he'd finished off Wraith. 

In spite of himself, Elliott grudgingly thanks Caustic for his sacrifice in his mind. 

He had done good. 

But then suddenly his thoughts turn to his other team mate.

And he almost leaps out of bed in panic.

"Bloodhound!" 

His nurse grabs him and shoves him back down onto the bed, his heart monitor on the floating holo screen beeping shrilly.

"Alive," she says. 

But she sounds softer now, almost sad. 

He stares at her, face stricken. 

"But...?"

"But barely. They're comatose, barely responding to treatment. We can't do much for them. We can heal all sorts of injuries, fix broken bones, fix ruptured organs, replace organs, but their spinal cord was severely damaged, fractured in several places. The spine is such a delicate thing... and yet, the entire human body relies on it." 

Elliott feels a growing panic in his chest, like a new open wound.

He throws his legs over the side of the bed, surprising his nurse, who lets out a yell, but he ignores her and tries to take two steps towards the door.

Immediately his entire body seizes up, as though his every muscle had been replaced with live wires, and he lets out a yelp as he falls to the floor. 

Immediately, the nurse calls in several aides to help her lift him back up and into the bed, where he thrashes, panting and struggling to get back up. 

"I want to see them!" he growls, slapping at the hands trying to hold him down. 

"Why?" the nurse asks exasperatedly. "They can't talk, won't even know you're there, and what are they to you anyway? You already won. If they wake up, they'll be winners too. What, do they owe  you money or something? Can't it wait?" 

"No!"

He keeps struggling, and eventually the nurse sighs. 

"Ok...you made me do this. I hope you realize that later." 

And he jerks with irritation, and a little pain, as she jabs him in the neck with a sedative. 

"Honestly, you Apex champions are always such a pain..." 

He drifts off to sleep against his will, Bloodhound's name on his lips. 

The next time he wakes up, it's to a different nurse, a skinnier, younger one, who blushes as he looks at her. 

"He's really good looking for an Apex champion. They're normally all ugly and rough looking," she giggles to a coworker. 

He falls asleep soon after, wondering if his hair looks alright. 

The very next time he wakes up, he's much more lucid and alert. 

He is no longer attached to anything, and when he pulls up his shirt, he sees that his chest is all healed up, not a scratch or dent in sight. It's a little disconcerting, as it always is, to see no evidence of a wound that had been carved out of his chest days ago, one that had traumatized his body almost to the point of no return, but he doesn't linger on it for longer than a moment.

He leaps out of bed, stumbling just a little, feeling nauseous, but shaking it off easily enough.

He storms out of his hospital bed room doors.

Only for two nurses to seize him under the armpits and drag him directly to see the head doctor of the ward. 

"What's the rush, Elliott? The Apex reward money has already been routed to your account. We just need one last check up to make sure everything's in tip top shape before we send you on your way. Oh, and before that, they'll want to do interviews, take photos, all that jazz-" 

"I don't care about any of that," Elliott says impatiently. "Is Bloodhound alive?" 

The doctor's smile fades from his face.

He suddenly can't meet Elliott's eyes, instead clearing his throat and rustling his papers around on his deck rather pointlessly. 

"That's still bothering you, eh? Well. I can't say I have good news. It doesn't look good. There have been no signs of improvement. And we've done about all we can do, so the Apex board in charge of the general running of this place are only giving us three more days until, you know." The doctor slides his finger across his throat.

Elliott stares at him, his eyes dark. 

"You're joking."

"No. I'm afraid not." 

"You're going to let them die?" 

"They're dying, Mr. Witt," the doctor says patiently. "It's only prolonging their suffering to keep them alive this way. Do you really think they would want to be kept alive like this, hooked up to a bevy of machines for the rest of their lives? Besides, this hospital is not a charity. We are run by Apex, our job is only to preserve the lives of champions, and some popular returning champions who still have a chance to compete again next year, for our sponsors and viewers. And even if it wasn't, well. Bloodhound has had no relatives come forward to claim them. They appear to have no spouse, no children, no mother, no father, no siblings, or anyone to vouch for their wishes, or to take them to another hospital, for prolonged comatose care. I'm afraid that the situation is simply not ideal." 

"So just because no one cares about them, they don't deserve to live?" Elliott asks angrily. 

The doctor blinks at him behind his round black glasses, his bald forehead glistening under the bright hospital lights. 

"Harshly put, but it's true, isn't it?" 

He smiles reluctantly at Elliott. 

"Now, you seem to be good to go, Mr. Witt. I'll just have you sign some papers, and then you can be on your way. Congratulations on winning your first Apex Game."

And then he sends him away, but Elliott only agrees to go after he's been given Bloodhound's room number. 

When he goes to their room, the door is locked, and when he asks about it, Bloodhound's nurse informs him that they cannot take visitors right now. 

He sits outside of their room for a while, consumed with guilt, anxiety, and longing. 

He just wants to talk to them again.

Ask them how they're feeling, what they remember, if they're happy to be alive.

Or if they would want to be kept alive, this way. 

He tries to think about how he'd feel about it.

If he'd want to be kept alive like that. 

He thinks no, he wouldn't, but who knows?

Who knows if a miracle will happen one day, if they suddenly wake up on their own, or if a new technology is discovered? 

And then he thinks about the horrible thing the doctor had said.

About how Bloodhound has no family, and thus no one to claim them.

No one to take care of them, to take them in when the hospital stopped bothering to care. When they decided their broken toy was no longer of use, and tossed it away.  

Well Bloodhound might not have family, but they have him. 

Sitting outside of their room, on his seventh hour, Elliott decides that he won't allow Bloodhound to die. 

He's just been rewarded a shitload of money, right? 

He can afford all of these machines, probably ten times over. Could maybe even start a hospital of his own, dedicated just to keeping Bloodhound alive. 

As he thinks all of these things to himself, half planning, half fantasizing, he fails to notice his name is being called until a nurse walks up to him and promptly grabs him by the shoulder.

"Elliott Witt." 

He jumps. 

"What? What is it?" he asks, his voice slightly annoyed as he'd been broken out of his reverie. 

"There's a person who kept coming in to visit you, but hadn't been let in because you weren't ready to accept visitors. Additionally, her identity could not be verified and we don't let in visitors who aren't registered family or pre-approved friends. She apparently just came in thirty minutes ago, asked about you, then walked right into your room. She's still there, keeps asking nurses where you went. She's been quite the nuisance, to be honest." 

Elliott frowns. 

"A woman?"

"Yes." 

He struggles to think of a woman he'd wronged so badly that she'd still be looking for him. 

"Uh...is she blonde? Super attractive, long legs, thinks she's a model even though she only ever did one gig for Solace's Finest?" 

"No. But she does claim to be your mother." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wraith is afk, Pathfinder just needs a reboot, Gibraltar is too tough to be gassed, Caustic is used to the smell of his own farts, and Lifeline has been dutch ovened before, she's fine. 
> 
> I can't believe you guys really thought I was gonna kill off every Apex Legends character, every time I read your comments I was filled with the urge to say NO, I wouldn't do that, but I kept my mouth shut. Jury's still out on Bloodhound, though. Anyway. 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> \- Bloodhound gets to talk to Armann, Elliott gets to talk to Liam. 
> 
> \- IT'S MAMA, are you READY for the hospital drama? 
> 
> \- On a more serious note, people have been asking me to tag certain things, and I did tag sexual assault, but also remember that I didn't know where I was going with this fic, so I didn't tag it initially cuz I didn't know it was even going to be there. Now that I know, I'll tag accordingly. 
> 
> \- Also, it's come to my attention that people are angry about people tagging miragehound fics as m/m or m/f. as a nonbinary person myself, I didn't really think it was annoying, I figured it was more for convenience than anything, since some people headcanon afab bloodhound and amab bloodhound, and that's always up to the reader to decide which one they prefer. 
> 
> but I can see why others would be annoyed, and I've decided to only tag my miragehound as "other" since archive doesn't have a category for pairings with nonbinary or non gender conforming characters.


	30. Ready to Go Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I lied.
> 
> I said it wouldn't go passed thirty chapters.
> 
> It's about to. I'm weak.

Elliott isn't sure if he wants to run away, hide, start throwing up, or all three.

Funny, how he can get shot at, be poisoned, take a shot gun blast to the chest, and endure nine hours of Caustic snoring and murmuring in his sleep, but the thought of facing his mother, now of all times, fills him with a primal fear unlike any other.

A grown man, still scared of his mother, but what can he say?

He may be taller, stronger, smarter (if only a little) than he was as boy, clinging to her hip, but she still has the aura of the leading authority figure in his life.

And now, knowing that she's in the hospital room he'd just left, he feels as though he were in a horror movie, and had just barely avoided the terrifying spectral figure that had been reaching out to grab him, unknown, from the shadows.

He gulps.

"I guess it really must be her, huh?" the nurse asks. "You'd best see her before she tears this whole hospital down, looking for you."

"It would give me a distraction," Elliott murmurs in response, looking furtively down the hallway, as though terrified he would see his mother charging down it.

"Oh come on, you're this year's Apex Champion and you're scared of your own mother?"

"You wouldn't understand!"

Elliott stomps away, miffed by the nurse's giggles.

But she is right.

After everything he's been through in the last 72 hours, it does seem ridiculous to fear this confrontation.

But at the same time, he hasn't seen her in a long time.

A very long time.

And a lot had happened in that time.

He barely feels like the Elliott she had known.

He should probably just run.

Come back in the dead of night.

Run out, get a disguise.

But while his body wants to run, something in his heart aches.

Something draws him back to his room, wanting so badly to see her even as the rest of him is terrified.

Is afraid, maybe not of her, but of seeing her hatred.

He hesitates outside of his hospital room, feeling so queasy he might actually physically be sick.

He gulps as he reaches for the doorknob, can see someone standing in there, someone whose back is to him, but whose hair and straight posture look familiar.

* * *

 "Hey, hey!" 

The tall, broad-shouldered, pale white male glares at her.

The nurse shrinks back, looking scared. 

"H-hey!" she says more timidly now. "You can't go in there!"

But he ignores her. 

His hand shoots out and seizes the door handle, yanking it down, practically falling his way into the room. 

The bed is a mess of wires and floating light monitors and machines hooked to the comatose patient. 

The tall man peers down at them, his eyes narrow, as harsh as the rest of his sickly pale face, which is coated with a thin layer of sweat. He is breathing hard as though struggling to simply stand there at their side, his chin shaking with exertion. 

"Bloodhound," he whispers through gritted teeth. 

But the person lying in the bed does not stir.

Their face is somehow paler than even his. 

And their skin seems so thin, almost papery, their fingers limp, their chest shaking up and down in a sick imitation of breathing. 

His lips tremble, and he cups his hand over his mouth, hating his weakness, how his mask has been taken from him. 

He is well enough to leave now, should leave today in fact, but he couldn't go without seeing Bloodhound, for reasons he cannot fathom.

He glares at his former team mate, barely clinging to life, heart rate sluggish.

"Is this how it ends for the mighty hunter?" he whispers. "Lying in a hospital bed, waiting to be unplugged?" 

His hands grip the railings of the bed. 

"You deserve a more glorious death, surely. The Allfather would not take you in such a pathetic manner, would he?" 

But neither the god, nor his follower, answer. 

He grits his teeth, beard trembling with barely concealed rage.

He doesn't know if it's the toxins still leaving his system, but he is outraged, simply furious with Bloodhound for allowing themselves to die in this state. 

He should have let them die in the ring.

They would have preferred an honorable death such as that to this...pathetic withering. 

As he stares at their unconscious body, he wonders if he would be doing them a favor by plunging their own knife, sitting beside them on their night stand, into their throat.

Alexander Nox stares at it. 

Obsessed with the idea as soon as it crosses his mind. 

Although it is hardly an honorable death, as they are defenseless, at the very least they will die under the hand of another hunter such as himself.

Under the claws of another predator, rather than the cold and apathetic hands of doctors who view them as nothing more than a failed personal project gone wrong. 

His fingers edge towards Bloodhound's knife. 

* * *

Elliott stands so awkwardly in the door, his head ducked down a little to clear its low frame. 

He stares at his mother, wondering what facial expression he should be wearing.

Whether he should look shocked, confused. Happy? Dignified? Calm? Scared?

Timid? Regretful? 

Should he fall to his knees and beg her for forgiveness or should he pretend that nothing ever changed, that she is the same mother he has always known, and he is still the same son? 

Should he come right out and talk about Liam, or should he wait, try to mend the damage? 

Or perhaps in order to ask for someone's forgiveness, you have to show them that you've changed, and intend to keep changing, and perhaps he should promise her that he will be better from now on, never kill again, never hurt her or their family ever- 

As his thoughts are racing and he stands awkwardly in the room, stuck between wanting to apologize and to make small talk, between wanting to hug her and keep his distance, he tenses instinctively as he feels two strong, muscular arms around him.

Wildly, he wonders if she's trying to squeeze him to death, if she's going to yank him over to the window and shove him out of it.

But after a few seconds, her face buried in his chest, it suddenly hits him.

Being in his mother's arms again, he suddenly remembers what it felt like, to be a seven year old whose greatest authority on love and life was their mother, whose most powerful protector and advocate was the woman who raised him. 

And when she begins to rub his back just like she used to, and he inhales her familiar smell, suddenly he's a little boy again, and he's bawling like one too. 

The Apex Champion, the last man standing, never flinching under bullet fire, taking a shot gun blast to the chest with a Mastiff, crying in his mother's arms. 

But he can't help it because underneath those layers of suave and confident masculine charm, under levels of jaunty arrogance, and even under the deeper layers of compassion and thoughtfulness, loyalty and steadfast dedication, is Sophia Witt's youngest son, a little boy in her eyes, and in her arms. 

"Where the hell have you been?" she half-whispers, half- growls in his ear. "Making your Mama worry!" 

* * *

_It's a cool and quiet place._

_With only the distant sound of voices occasionally rippling the grey waters above their head._

_Otherwise, they are undisturbed._

_There are lights that flash off in the distance, like storm clouds lit by lightning._

_But they cannot  be harmed._

_They have never felt so safe in their life, except save, perhaps, in their mother's womb._

_Everything that had ever plagued their waking mind has been purged._

_Now they are free to swim around if they desire._

_Floating high above the dim grey ocean floor and listen to the world go on without them overhead._

_But they prefer simply to drift._

_They have never known such peace._

_It is a lonely place._

_But they have been lonely for what feels like most of their life._

_At least this lonely place feels safe._

* * *

Alexander Nox leaves the knife where it is. 

The impulse is tempting, but like the moment in Artillery, where he had felt compelled to pull Bloodhound out of the ring, now he feels compelled to simply leave. To allow Bloodhound their last moments, whatever they are meant to  be. 

He leaves an empty gas canister beside them, although he isn't sure why. Perhaps so that, should they wake up, they will know he was here. 

Why he would desire for them to know such a thing is beyond him.

He is passed human emotions. 

They are only a weakness, something that leaves one vulnerable to the emotional and physical attacks of others. They weaken one's mind, one's heart, twist one's beliefs, and stunt their growth. A long time ago, he had accepted such weakness into his heart, and it had only left him with nothing in the end. With a fragile heart, wracked with a suffering that only crippled him, destroyed his research, corrupted his mind, froze his entire body into inaction, into painless, but useless numbness. He had learned from that experience, as a scientist does. Would never allow anything, not family, not friends, nor humans in general to interfere with his research. With his mind, and heart, ever again. 

Such things served only as detriments to one's development. 

He knows that. 

Yet he still bows his head to an unconscious person, leaves a surely dead person an empty canister. 

Had been forced to come to this room, before he leaves, to visit someone he did not know, did not truly care about. 

Perhaps his head is still affected by his own gases, or perhaps the ring had changed him somewhat, as it always did, as it changed everyone. 

But for once, his scientific mind decides to let this one go.

Let it remain a mystery, why he did such illogical things. 

He turns and leaves, scoffing at several doctors, who all stand outside, looking terrified. 

He supposes that that was his goodbye to one of the greatest hunters he has ever met. 

A shame, to have finally recognized an equal in someone else, only for them to get themselves killed.

But he does suppose that Bloodhound had accepted it themselves, the will of the Allfather, of course. 

And perhaps they would not be bothered by such trivial things as the exact manner of their death, so long as they felt that they had lived. 

Alexander Nox, not one to  brood over matters of the heart, decides to accept it as it is. 

He leaves unsettled, more stirred up than he has been in a long time, with the ghost of a mother's voice lingering in his ears. 

* * *

"Where have you been?" 

"It's a long story. What happened to  you?"

"It's a long story." 

"I've got time." 

"So do I. We have a lot of catching up to do, Elliott..."

Her son grins at her. 

Although he's taller, his face more handsome, but his eyes harder, more tired, when he smiles, he still has the same boyish cheeks, the same quirky smile.

She feels something in her heart lift at the sight of that smile again, has missed it over the years. 

As she stares at him, drinking in the details of his face, the smile begins to drop from it.

And she frowns, hating to see it go. 

"What's wrong? Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Of course," he says. "But...Mom, how could you forgive me?" 

She feels an uncomfortable jolt in her throat, a feeling produced by a mixture of anger, guilt, and sorrow. 

"Sit down, Elliott Zakarius Witt." 

At the authoritative bark in her tone, he instinctively scrambles for the nearest seat, a hospital chair.

She pulls the one beside him across the room, situating it across from him instead.

She sits in it, forcing him to look directly at her. 

"Listen here," she says fiercely. "You left your mother and your brothers in the dark and didn't tell them about the kinds of things you were doing, not for a few weeks or a few months, but for years. That is unforgivable. Your selfish behavior hurt not only you, but your family as well, driving them away from both you, one another, and even from their homes. That is unforgivable. And your cowardly behavior got  your brother killed. It put the gun in your hand and killed him. And that is perhaps the most unforgivable action of all. You do understand that, right, Elliott?" 

He trembles, still terrified by her voice, but more terrified of his own voice, screaming at him that she's right, that she hates him, for good reason, and that he doesn't deserve anyone's forgiveness or love ever again. 

"It was an accident," he says, his voice as small as a child's. 

"I know. I saw. I knew that when it happened. But it didn't matter back then. Because I thought to myself that it was your fault. Even though logically I knew that you were merely the weapon the IMC chose, my heart blamed you because it was distraught. Because it needed someone to  blame. And you bear part of that blame, whether that is fair or not," Sophia Witt says slowly, with feeling. Unlike her son, she does not run from her feelings. 

He can tell that she had thought about this for a long time, had probably known what she wanted to say to him for years. 

"But time has made me see that I still love you. That I am...hurt by your silence, by your secrets, your mistakes, but I also brought you into this universe. I taught you everything I know, tried to make you a good person. I bear responsibility for you, and I am  no coward. I confronted my own feelings, even though it was painful, and I concluded that I love you both. I love Liam, and I love you. Liam was doing dangerous work. He was unlucky. Got captured. And you made a mistake. Joining the Predators, never telling your family where you were or what you were really doing. You were assigned to kill him, and if  you had refused, someone else would have done it. These are things I knew from the beginning, but I wasn't ready to accept them."

She lets out a deep sigh, as though removing a great burden from her chest.

When she'd said I love you, Elliott had let out a sigh of his own, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted off of him too.

He'd been so afraid of hearing her say she hated him. 

Or simply that she didn't love him anymore. 

It had haunted his subconscious mind since that fateful day on Tristan. 

"The human heart is often slower to change than the human mind," his mother says hoarsely. "It took me a long time to want to see you. I simply didn't want to, for three long, painful years. I had to mourn Liam...I couldn't corrupt his memory by seeing his murderer...I had to make sense of his death, celebrate his life. Come to terms with the hole in my life where he had once filled. It was an agonizing experience. Parents aren't made to bury their own children. We feel like children ourselves, terrified, weak, small, insignificant. The victims of a greater authority, the authority of some cosmic cruelty. We are reminded that we parents are not as powerful as we always thought we were, and that we failed to protect the ones we were supposed to love more than anyone. Love was supposed to be our super power, our greatest strength. But it failed us. And we failed our children." 

Although she still looks handsome and dignified, her head held high, back as straight as he remembered, she still looks exhausted. 

The lines of her face are definitely sharper, deeper, edged with hardship. 

"I spoke to Warren often in those first three years. But you never came up, because Warren...Warren has always been more delicate than the rest of you boys. He retreated inside of himself, and I never...was never able to get him to talk about it. I spoke to Talos, but he grew more and more distant as the years passed. And one day, he simply disappeared. Was declared missing in action. I know what that usually means in IMC terms. But I hoped, and still do hope, that he's still alive out there somewhere. That they didn't kill him, only failed to capture him. That he escaped... and after they tried to kill me on Solace, I desperately clung to the fantasy that one day, we would somehow find one another..." 

At the sound of his brothers' names, Elliott's heart aches even stronger than it had when she said I love you. 

"After Talos was gone, and only Warren was left, I started to want to see you, talk to you, even though I was still angry. I wanted an explanation. I wanted to make you feel ashamed. To punish you, I suppose. To make you know some of the pain I felt. I wanted to tell you I hated you and I would never call you my son again. I wanted to curse you for tearing apart our family with your selfish actions. So I went looking for you, all over the galaxy. I was fueled by my rage, and running from the IMC to boot. I felt I had nothing left to lose. But finding you was proving difficult. The Apex Predators do  not share their names with anyone, nor do they keep an active roster. Their ships are numerous, and their clients spread far and wide. I couldn't find you. My anger faded with time. All I could do was think about how much I wanted to see you. Wanted to ask you why did you do it, how could you? And in time, even those despairing thoughts simply became the desire to see you. To see my little boy, make sure he was alright." 

She reaches out and squeezes his hand. 

He squeezes hers back, feeling the callouses, the muscles, the warmth of her palm in his. 

It's silly, but his eyes are a little watery at being called her boy. 

"Make no mistake," she says, her voice turning a little stiff, just a little icy. For a moment, Elliott can hear some of the rage from those initial years, can see some of her temper flaring up in her sad, wizened eyes. "I still do put some blame on your hands. But I will also put some blame on his." 

"I tried to make him escape with me," Elliott says. "I tried, Mama, I tried, but he refused, because-"

"Because he would not abandon his friends?" 

"Yes."

She nods. 

"That is about what I expected. So there is blame to go around. Some blame on my part, for not raising smarter kids."

Elliott lets out a short laugh.

"I was a fool to think I could ever change Liam's mind."

"And I was a fool for teaching him to think of himself as a super hero. He never did know when to quit, to fold, to choose your battles. Rest assured, there is plenty of blame to go around. But now, I think, blame is not what we need. What we need is forgiveness and time to heal the wounds of the living. I will always miss Liam. I will always love him. But I still have living children that I need to take care of. And you are one of them, Elliott. Still my baby."

She leans forward and touches his head softly with her right palm.

She rubs his hair like she used to do when he was a little boy in the bath tub, getting his hair washed, blowing bubbles in the water. 

"Mom, I...I can't tell you  how much it means to me, to-to be here and to hear you say all of- I've been so scared of facing you, I thought you hated me, and I've just been running, I just couldn't face you- and thinking about Liam, it just reminds me of everything I wanted to tell you when it happened, all the things I wanted to remember about him, but couldn't because- because it was-" 

She pulls him off the chair and to his feet again, giving him another hard, Mother Witt hug. 

He hugs her just as ferociously back, almost lifting her off her feet with his enthusiasm. 

"I'm so sorry, Mom," he says. "I'm sorry for everything. For leaving. For hiding." 

"You're right to be," she says back. Her tears are warm and wet on his shoulder. "I'm sorry too." 

And two people, torn apart long ago by grief, come back together to realize their pain as mother and son, recognize the causes of their sorrow and tackle them as one. 

As he hugs her, and is hugged by her, Elliott wonders why he  hadn't done this sooner.

But in his heart, he answers his own question. 

Because it had taken time. 

Time apart to learn these things, about themselves, and one another. 

Distance, both in time and space, from the pain. 

Only when distance had healed some of the worst of the wounds could they begin to bridge the gaps between them. 

Perhaps all wounds are not fully healed, will never be properly mended.

Perhaps their scars would always be lopsided, visible on their skins like a stark ugly reminder of their past mistakes and failures. 

But Elliott imagines that as Witts, they should be proud of their battle scars. 

* * *

"Come home with me," Sophia Witt insists. "I've been living under a false name in the city of Valkana, on the planet Demeter. It's not home the way Solace is, but it was a good base of operations for when I was trying to track you down while also keeping an ear perked for any clues leading to Talos." 

The city name sounds familiar to him for some reason, but Elliott has more pressing matters on his mind. 

"I can't." 

Her brow furrows in consternation.

"Why not?" 

"Because I...someone else needs me." 

"What do you mean? Who? A woman? A man?" she asks. 

"A...friend. Their name is Bloodhound, they were my-"

"Your teammate from the Apex Game?" she asks, sounding disbelieving. "But you barely know them-"

"I know them well enough!" Elliott says a little sharply. He immediately looks down, feeling bad about snapping. "I...Mom, I care about them a lot. They...saved my life so many times in the ring, when they didn't have to. And they...set me straight a lot of times too. Made me realize a lot of things. About my experiences, my life, myself. They're...they're really someone special. Someone important. And they're...dying. They're dying." 

His voice shakes as he says it aloud, as he finally admits it to himself. 

"They're going to die, Mom." 

It breaks. 

And Sophia Witt seizes his hand again, squeezing it hard and tight. 

"Do you love them?" she asks seriously.

He bites his bottom lip, his fingers squeezed so tightly in a fist that his knuckles are white, which contrast with Sophia's dark skin. 

"I don't know. Like you said, I barely know them. Can't really know them well, not in just three days," Elliott says. "But...I just feel something else when I'm around them. I know they're important. I know they're...sensitive deep down. Naturally predisposed to being kind, but hardened by the horrible things they've experienced. Loyal. Compassionate. Fierce, but dedicated to a code of honor. Brave, fearless at times, but never reckless. Quick witted and has a decent sense of humor. I respected them as my team mate, enjoyed my time with them as I got to know them, and then...I think that they became my friend. And then I...started to feel as though maybe, one day, they could be more. I don't know, Mom, I'm not sure. All I do know is that it doesn't matter. Because they're dying. And I can't do anything about it. No one can." 

Just thinking about it makes Elliott feel sick to his stomach. 

The ground is spinning under his feet.

He stares at it, then feels his mother's hands on his shoulders, forcing him to sit down. 

She walks around him, coming back to her own chair.

He expects her to look somber. 

To admit that things are certainly dire, and that sometimes you  have to accept death in your life, and that there are times in your life where there is simply nothing you can do. 

But instead, she is staring at him with deep concentration.

"I'm not so sure about that." 

Elliott tilts his head at her, distress momentarily replaced by confusion.

"What do you mean?" 

"When I found out where you were, before I rushed onto the next transport ship, I...made a call. I told him where I was going, and where you were going to be, and that...if he wants to talk, in person, with both you and me in the room, then he should head out as soon as he can... I'm not sure if he did, if he's headed here, or has arrived, but if I can just find a communicator, I can confirm, if he's in the area or-"

"Mom, hold on, you're talking too fast, what- who are you talking about-?" 

"And of course, there's no guarantee he'll be able to help, or be able to fix the problem, but he has been working on something, something big, and it's a prototype, experimental, but it's been working miracles lately, and it seems like you could use a miracle right now-" 

"A miracle- Mom, who are you- how could they help-?"

"It's honestly quite brilliant, and I have no idea how it works, but it's going to change the world, and probably even the Apex Games themselves as soon as he can get it working properly-" 

"Mom!" Elliott practically yells. "Who are you talking about?"

"Warren," she says sharply cutting through his question. "Warren Witt, do you remember him? Tall, handsome, the sensitive type, now the eldest brother? Come on, now, Elliott. Don't you remember he was working on the improvements of-"

"Personal shields?" Elliott asks, trying to ignore how hard his stomach flipped at the thought of seeing his (now) eldest brother. "But what does that have to do with-?"

"He went into medical engineering, not just engineering," Sophia Witt says. "And after...Liam, he was tired of defending IMC airbases. Wanted to create shields for people, not for corporations. Wanted to protect individuals instead of business interests. He's been working on something amazing. I don't know if it'll help in Bloodhound's case, but if their situation is really as hopeless as you say it is, then it can't hurt to try, right?" 

He stares at her, quite flummoxed, but unable to think of any form of protest.

So he just nods. 

"Ok." 

And she stands up briskly, in that busy, no-nonsense way he remembers, going out to look for an interstellar communicator to call his brother. 

Leaving him with a confusing mixture of unease, anxiety about seeing one of his brothers again, and the smallest, most delicate sliver of hope that Bloodhound might be saved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eep. 
> 
> So the story has a few scenes I just couldn't leave out. 
> 
> And I couldn't shove all of them into one chapter, I just ain't that kind of bitch. 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> \- so..........................personal shields. mentioned a while back, i don't think anyone thought that was particularly interesting at the time......but there's one kind of shield.... that's different than the rest of them. hm. food for thought. anyway. 
> 
> \- the return of valkannnnnnaa
> 
> \- Caustic u mega bitch, i love you. until we meet again in another fanfic. 
> 
> \- I chose to write miragehound porn yesterday instead of updating this fic. much apologies. 
> 
> \- and lastly, thank you so much for sticking with this story for this goddamn long. It's now 100k words, that's insane. this is literally a novel. why are you still here? why do we struggle? i can't feel my arm. literally. it's 6 am and I've been leaning on it. Good night everyone.


	31. Legends

_"How's Elliott doing?"_

_"He's been busy."_

_"Glad to hear it."_

_"Why don't you ask him yourself?"_

_"He gets so defensive and annoyed...and when I try to talk to him about it, he tells me to mind my own business."_

_"We were the same at his age."_

_"No, we weren't! You had your head shoved in a book, and didn't bother with the angry rebelling against the world stage. And me, I was-"_

_"Rebelling against the world, but with less of a temper?"_

_"You're not the funny brother, Warren."_

_"And you're not the smart one, but look who's trying to switch roles?"_

_"...I've missed you guys a lot."_

_"I know."_

_"You could join me. We could use a light armor technician and a field medic..."_

_"You could visit home more often. Mom worries."_

_"Do you worry about me, kid brother?"_

_"Don't call me that. I'm a year younger than you."_

_"Practically a toddler."_

_"..."_

_"... you're angry at me."_

_"Disappointed."_

_"Ugh, I hate it when you do that."_

_"I hate when you do_ that." 

* * *

"Warren." 

"Hey, Mom. You ok?"

"Yes. You don't have to ask every time. Are you coming?"

"I wasn't going to." 

"Well get your ass out here."

"Why?"

"We need you." 

"What do you mean? What does...he want?" 

"Listen, Warren, I know I said you didn't have to come with me. I know I said that you didn't have to come talk to him, even if he asked. But this is important. He has a friend who needs your help." 

"...So...so I'm supposed to drop everything, come out there, and do everything in my power to help him with whatever shit he got himself into?" 

"Warren, listen-"

"Who's his friend? An intergalactic arms dealer? Some escaped convict who joined the Apex Games because he gets off on torturing and killing others, but it doesn't fit his day job? How about an Apex Predator responsible for ending the lives of hundreds for an easy allowance?"

"Elliott- listen, he's different than he was when you last saw him. Something about him has changed-"

"Mom, I really don't want to talk about this right now. I can't come. I'm sorry. His friend will have to suck it up-" 

"They're dying, Warren."

"That's what the Apex Games are all about. Surely they knew that." 

"This isn't about them, Warren. This is about Elliott." 

"Is that supposed to convince me to come, or keep me away?" 

"You can't stay bitter about this forever, Warren. Sooner or later, it's just going to implode inside of you. I'm not saying you have to forgive him. But you can't just keep it bottled up inside and remain unresolved. You can't, Warren. You're smarter than that. Now listen...I think Elliott cares very deeply about this person. I think they meant something to him. I'm not saying to come out here for them, or to come out here for Elliott, or even to come for me.  _You_  need this. You need closure, whether it's negative or positive, whether you want to let the past go or hold onto it forever. You're not as different from me as we always thought, you know. I held onto my anger for a long time too. I let it go because I needed to. Because suddenly I was tired of being angry. I was tired of suffering. I was ready to heal. You might not be ready to heal, but this could be your first step. I would give you time to think about it, but we don't have much time. Will you come? Or not?" 

* * *

"What did he say?" Elliott asks. 

"He didn't say anything," his mother murmurs. They're both seated in the hospital cafeteria, morosely picking at the terrible and overpriced hospital food. Elliott is carving pictures into the crappy Styrofoam tray and she is rhythmically beating hers against the table top. "He just hung up." 

"Is that a no?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm going to kick his ass if he doesn't get out here. You don't hang up on your mother." 

She frowns moodily at the ceiling, her nails rubbing slices of Styrofoam off her tray and littering the floor with them. 

"I asked him to come with me, but he said no."

"He didn't want to see me?"

"No. He was never the type to hold a grudge..."

"For this kind of thing, it's warranted," Elliott says, smiling painfully.

Sophia Witt frowns at him and reaches over the table to feel his forehead. "Are you sure you're ok? No permanent injuries? No extra fever or allergic reactions to the medic kits? Those things are like steroids, you know, not good for your mood or your body's chemical equilibrium-"

"I'm fine, Mom, gosh," Elliott says with a playful tap to her wrist. But even though he says it, inwardly he's missed being fussed over by someone. "It's Bloodhound who needs help, not me." 

"Tell me more about them," Sophia says. "What have you been through, these last three days, Elliott?" 

For some reason, the question makes him laugh. 

"I guess we have time." 

* * *

_"Liam! Liam! Play with me!"_

_A six year old Elliott Witt waves his hands excitedly._

_Out in the middle of "nowhere," as the locals called it, the Witt family residence was one of the few buildings one would run across for miles._

_There was one strip of road leading in and out of the city, a good twenty miles away from their run down three floored farm house. The entire bottom floor of the house was Sophia Witt's machinery repair shop, where she took requests and developed her own technology on  her free time. Although there were better premises in the city, and higher pay, Sophia had always opted to keep her sons away from the rigors of urban life, wishing instead that they would learn how to play outside and bond with one another over obsessing with the latest in holo coms. Her oldest sons had been home schooled until they were eleven. Talos, seven, and not liking being away from his mommy too much, was still home schooled. Elliott was the only exception, already going to first grade, taking the long journey into the city with his brothers every day. He, unlike Talos, loved the city._

_Liam pretends to think about it._

_"I don't know...have you been good today?"_

_"Yes! No! I mean, good enough!"_

_"That doesn't sound like a solid answer."_

_"Elliott can't play right now, he's taking a bath!" a seven year old Talos says. "Right, Mama?"_

_"Right," Sophia Witt says sternly, giving Liam a half-hearted glare. "And it'd be nice if he could go one whole night without getting covered in dust, mud, and whatever grime you manage to dredge up down in that sand fort you boys play in."_

_"Sorry, Mama," Warren says dutifully._

_She ruffles his hair affectionately._

_"I didn't mean you. I wish you would get dirty with them, really enjoy the outdoors. Spend some time with your brothers."_

_"I spent more than enough time with Liam before Talos and Elliott were born," Warren says with a smile._

_Liam punches him in the shoulder._

_"Don't make it sound like such a bummer," Liam says. He's thirteen and already a little heart breaker in the making, with soft, thick curly hair that falls just right on his brow and a charismatic, quick-witted sense of humor that made girls giggle and blush constantly around him. Warren, twelve, is much less charismatic, more bookish and reserved, but he's popular with teachers, who often trust him as a classroom monitor and know he'll always know the right answer if they call on him. Warren was two years older than Talos, and could remember when it had been just Mom, Dad, Liam, and himself. He could remember Dad. In fact, he could even remember a time when he and Mom seemed happy in their marriage._

_He could also remember when it started to turn sour, and he could remember it, hazily, when Dad had left in the middle of the night, his wife pregnant with Elliott, and never come back._

_Those times before Talos and Elliott had been born had been special, an era in which a picture-perfect Witt family existed._

_Times he and Liam shared that their other two brothers didn't have._

_Although he loves his brothers, and is much happier with their Father gone, as near the End, he'd had a nasty temper, he still thinks about how nice it had been, to have just Liam to talk to._

_Liam, sensing that he's having "serious thoughts" again, frowns at him._

_"Think any harder and your head will explode," he says._

_Warren shakes his head._

_"Remember when it was just us?" he asks quietly. "We had some good times..."_

_"Yeah, we did," Liam replies with a little laugh. "It's much better now, isn't it? Talos is fun to mess with, Elliott's a sweet kid. Can't wait to see him grow up to be Warren 2.0."_

_"How do you know he's not going to be more like you?" Warren asks, amused._

_"Too sweet to be like me. He'll take after Mom, I bet you. Er...I mean, her sweet side. The side you inherited."_

_"You've inherited her temper."_

_"And you got her brains, and Talos has to have her sense of fun, so Elliott's gonna be her kind and soft side. Kind of like you, but maybe leaning more to the stupid side, like me."_

_"You aren't stupid."_

_"I know. I just wanted to hear you say it."_

_He grins at Warren._

_When he smiles, Warren sees his father. But the good parts of his father. The wild and passionate man who always had a cause to fight for, people he needed to take care of. The man who taught his boys to think for themselves and never blindly follow authority. Who believed strongly that one's purpose, one's destiny, was tied to the entirety of the human race, and to better the human race should be the goal of every human being._

_The man who went off chasing his destiny, leaving his entire family behind, because his life's true purpose lay in the stars, not quietly at home, paying bills and going to kids' soccer games._

_Lost in thought, he almost doesn't notice Elliott tugging at his sleeve._

_When he does, he immediately falls to his knees, staring quite seriously at the little boy._

_"What's wrong, Elli?"_

_"Will you do my homework for me?" he asks solemnly._

_Warren frowns as Liam laughs uproariously. "No. Why would you ask me that?"_

_"Because if Liam did it, it'd be wrong."_

_Now it's Warren's turn to laugh while Liam looks annoyed._

_"You sure he'll be like me?" Warren asks, eyes gleeful. "That sounds more like something you'd say."_

* * *

 Warren holds an old family hologram in his palm. 

On the smooth silver disk, his mother has her arms around her two oldest sons, seventeen and sixteen at the time, with her two youngest in the front, fourteen and thirteen. 

Elliott had just hit his rebellious phase, and was looking rather irritably at the camera, trying to shove Talos' arm off of his shoulders. 

Talos, although with a rather unpredictable sense of humor, seemed to handle puberty with a little more grace. He grins at the camera and attempts to flick Elliott in the neck. 

Warren's eyes drift first to his mother's face.

She seemed so young, so full of life.  So hopeful and happy, despite her rocky marriage and rough history with the IMC's Tactical Light Technology Bureau. 

They go to Talos next. 

He was so oblivious, obsessed with silly music and dancing with girls, always trying to pull off some elaborate prank, make everyone laugh at him, or themselves, for a while. 

The last time he'd seen him...he'd been saying goodbye. 

And that he couldn't explain what he was doing, just that he was sorry and he loved him, loved Elliott, loved Mama. And that he might never come home, but he was happy to be doing what Liam had died doing. 

Two Witt boys, down and out because they were stupid enough to believe their father's philosophy about destiny.

About trying to better humanity, no matter the personal costs. 

Warren refuses to look at Elliott's face. 

And instead, his heart drops as he looks at Liam's face. 

Tan, handsome, smiling eager up at him. 

His vacant eyes nothing more than a copy of the real Liam. 

That's all their family is now.

A hologram, a shallow 3-D image with moving lips and twitching faces, but empty, hollow emotions on their faces. 

A flash from the past, a shadow of what they were. 

Warren switches the hologram off and throws it hard at the sidewalk. It bounces hard off the pavement. 

"Are you littering?" 

He jumps in shock, having not heard the woman approach. 

She is tall, intimidating, with strong cheekbones, dark black hair, shiny as silk, a rather prominent hooked nose, with beads woven into her hair. At her side is a rather feral-looking dog, which has a rather wild look in its eyes, as though not quite as domesticated as it should be. She wears a red robe covered in intricate, strange symbols that he doesn't recognize, which look rather like some kind of alphabet. 

"No. I mean. I wasn't trying to," Warren says stiffly. 

"Your kind does nothing but litter," the woman says scathingly.

Warren stares at her. "My kind?" 

"That factory?" the woman says, pointing her tattooed finger at a nearby facility, billowing with heavy grey smoke. "Filling the air with litter. Poisoning our water with litter." 

"And keeping our homes powered, yes," Warren says mildly. On the one hand, he understands what she's trying to say. But on the other, he's not in the mood for social justice antics today. There had been a time when he'd wanted to walk in his eldest brother's footsteps, finish the fight he'd started. But the time had come and gone, and now he merely hides from the IMC with his mother, keeping his head low, and trying not to think about their shattered family. 

"Your homes? Built upon the graves of my ancestors. Constructed from their bones, rising into the sky like the arms of the damned reaching out of the pits of hell!" 

She shakes her finger at him. 

"Shame on you!"

"Mom!" 

A young woman, more of a teenager really, walks out of a nearby shop, looking embarrassed. 

Her mother, miffed, turns her nose up at Warren. 

"I'm so sorry," she says to Warren. "She's a little...eccentric." 

"I can see that," Warren says dryly. 

She flushes, looking at him. 

"Uh...you dropped this, by the way." 

She bends down to pick up the hologram emitter, which had rolled into her door. 

As she hands it to him, it flickers on weakly, showing her the Witt family.

"Oh? Is that you?" she asks sweetly, smiling at the small version of himself, with his mother's arm around his shoulders. 

"Yes." 

"You have so many brothers!" 

"I did," Warren says flatly. 

"What do you mean-?"

"Two of them are dead. The third is gone." 

"Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry," the woman says, her eyes immediately downcast. 

"Don't be. If you want it, you can keep it. I'm sure it can be stripped for parts." 

He hands it back to her. 

Or at least, tries to.

But she backs away, holding her hands up in front of her defensively.

"Oh no, no, that's a hologram of your family! You should keep it."

"It's nothing but a burden for me to look at," Warren says irritably. "I'm going to chuck it anyway."

"Don't!" 

"Why not?" What does it matter to you, he almost says. 

"Because... you need something to remember them by, don't you?"

"I don't want to think about them, I don't want to look at them. It's useless thinking about a past you can never return to. Pointless to think about family members you'll never see again. Whose stories are over and done." 

The young woman, who'd looked morose and nervous, suddenly looks upset. 

"That's a horrible thing to say."

Warren scowls at her. 

"What's it to you?"

"I can't imagine saying anything so cruel about my family." 

"There's nothing cruel about it. The dead ones don't mind, and the living ones...don't care." 

"I doubt that very much. I bet the living ones care a great deal. You care too. That's why you're trying so hard to pretend you don't."

He turns away from her and begins to walk away.

"I'm done with this conversation." 

"Family members have to protect one another. Not just in life, but in death too. No one's ever truly gone as long as you remember them, keep them remembered by all those who come after you. Families pass down traditions, secrets, stories, names. It's our duty to preserve our heritage, our family's legacies, its greatest shames, its greatest triumphs. The horrors it withstood."

He begins to walk faster, but she chases after him like some kind of lunatic, seizing his sleeve and yanking him back.

"You don't know anything about me!" he yells, shaking her off of him. "I don't want to remember it. I don't want to live with it, or pass it down to the next generation or whatever. I'm  _ashamed_ of him, I hate him, I don't want to think about him anymore because I loved him, and he betrayed me. And he's not family anymore." 

A terrible rage has clutched his heart, filling his chest with blackness. 

"Now leave me alone! If you don't want the damn thing, then I'll just toss it!"

And he tries to yank it out of her hand, but she pulls it back, looking stubborn.

"You're right, I don't know anything about you!" she cries. "But I'm holding onto this, if you really don't want it. Because some day, maybe you'll be old and angry and about to die, and then you'll remember a time when you were young and happy and surrounded by loving family members, and you'll ask yourself why did I let that go? Maybe things won't ever go back to the way they used to be! Fine! Get over it! You can't go back, so what? What are you going to do, roll over and die? Or will you gather the broken remains of what you used to have and glue it back together? The cracks will always be there, staring you in the face." 

"Get away from me!"

He veers away from her, around a corner, but she keeps following him, his holo emitter clenched in her hands. 

She seizes his arm again and pulls him around the corner.

"What the hell? Get off of me, kid," he snaps. 

"My mom wasn't lying," she hisses. "My family was split up and separated from one another a long time ago. Some of us were murdered, others made slaves, and others simply sent away. And living with that has been hard on my mom. Made her just a little bit manic depressive, if I'm honest. Always raving about her time as an indentured servant, the hardships she endured, how she escaped. Don't you think she'd given anything to have what  you have? She has no idea where her mother is, or where her grandmother is. She has no idea where her aunts or uncles or cousins or second cousins are. She's...alone. She has no family, besides me and Dad. I know it's not my business, but this is...so important." 

Warren feels something in his long numb heart stir. 

His eyes close, tired. 

"Keep it," he says with great exhaustion. "I'm too old for this, kid." 

"I will. And when you're ready to have it back, I'll give it back to you. You know where to find me."

"I won't be on Valkana for much longer, I suspect," Warren sighs. 

"That's ok. I'll be here. And you'll ask me for this back, I know you will," the woman says. 

"Whatever. Whatever, kid."

"What were your brothers' names?" 

He tries to glare at her, but can't muster the anger to do it, instead giving her an exasperated look. "Liam. Talos. And...Elliott." 

"Elliott is still alive?"

"Yes."

"Liam and Talos are dead?"

"Talos might be alive. But probably not."

She nods.

"I know what that feels like. It's worse than if they were dead, because you're so sure they're dead, that they're gone, died horribly, but a part of you is always unsettled, feeling like maybe they're out there somewhere, and they need you. Maybe they're still alive, and one day they'll come running through that door to be with you again, make you smile, make you laugh. It's horrible, isn't it? That hopeful feeling?" 

He wants to say something cruel to make her go away, but his heart is not inclined to cruelty, and he's just tired more than anything now. 

Instead he just nods. 

"I think about the missing all the time. But I try to think of the dead too. I try to remember them so that someone will. I never knew my grandmother. But my mother loved her very much. And she loved her own grandmother very much. So much that I'm named after her. Her name lives on, as does her memory, in me. And I'm sorry, I know we don't know each other at all. But you look miserable. You look like you're dead on your feet. And I saw your face through the glass while you were looking at that hologram. I can't pretend to know whatever happened between you and your family members. It's not my business. But you need closure. Maybe you won't ever know what happened to Talos, but you can't let your other brother disappear too. You'll beat yourself up forever, wondering, what could've been if you hadn't tried to talk to him when you could." 

Warren's chest is full of piercing cold needles of anxiety and fear. 

Suddenly he isn't angry anymore, just unsettled and scared of the dangerous notion brewing in his head. 

This girl can't be older than twenty, yet she seems so mature and strangely concerned for his well-being. 

"Do whatever you have to do, but try to make a decision that won't haunt you for the rest of your life," she says. She grips his hologram emitter in her hands. "And I'll hold onto this, ok? You'll come find me?" 

Warren wants to tell her that he won't ever want that shitty little dented piece of the past back ever again. 

But he can't, because he's confused, overwrought with heavy emotions, of guilt, fear, worry, maybe even an inkling of realization brought on by this strange girl's words. 

"I...I guess. What's...what's your name?" 

"Alda." 

* * *

 Elliott lets out a sigh of relief as he finishes telling his mother everything that had happened in the ring, and in the past seven years of his life. 

They sit together, uncomfortably squished in chairs outside of Bloodhound's room. 

The hospital is running on a skeleton crew, as it's very late at night, practically into the morning. 

With nothing else to do, they talk endlessly, catching up, both happy to be in one another's company again. It is only now, at the end of his story about the ring, that he takes a breath, and his mother lets out the one she is holding. 

"That's...quite a story," his mother muses. "I'll have to thank them when they wake up."

The smile drops off of Elliott's face.

"If." 

"When." 

"Warren's not coming."

"I believe he will. I hope he does." 

"He hates me."

"No, he doesn't. I didn't hate you, he can't either. It's not in his nature."

"I changed his nature, remember?" 

"No, you didn't. Warren is a very private person. Just because he's always calm doesn't mean he's naturally passive or just not inclined to be passionate. He has feelings just like the rest of us. And they took control of him...that day." 

Elliott slumps over in his chair, ankles dragging along the tile. 

"I just want to talk to him. I just want closure. And...for Bloodhound's sake, not mine...I need his help. Then we can leave each other's lives forever, if he wants."

"Is that what you want?" Sophia Witt asks. 

Elliott grips her hand tightly in his through the rungs of their chair arms. 

"No," he says firmly. "No, I love him. I loved Liam, and I'll always love him. And I'll always love you guys, all of you. I know what I did was wrong, and I want to fix it before I die. I can't leave it in the past anymore and pretend it doesn't affect the present, or the future." 

"And they said you were the dumbest son I had," Sophia Witt says with a fake sigh. 

Elliott laughs. 

"Who said that?"

"My other sons." 

They laugh together. 

And he is reminded, for an instant, that all this time, he'd been sure she hated him and would never take him back.

That moments like these were destined to be forever stuck in the past, when he and his family had loved one another. When a different Elliott Witt had existed, and had deserved their love. 

He squeezes her hand tightly, almost too tight.

It feels so real. As warm as it used to, holding her hand by the creek that ran by their house, a scarf on his neck, lovingly tied by his doting mother. 

He thinks about Liam.

And Talos.

And Warren. 

The laughter they'd shared.

Liam's arms around him, heartily slapping his back.

Talos, jabbing him in the side and fake wrestling with him.

Warren. 

Touching his shoulder gently with fondness in his eyes. 

So different from the Warren that had haunted his dreams all these years. 

"I need to talk to Warren," Elliott says firmly. "He doesn't have to forgive me, or even speak to me ever again, I just-" 

Sophia nods. 

"Closure."

"Closure." 

As if on command, her communicator buzzes. 

Sophia looks down, surprised and anticipatory. 

She goes to pull open the video window, but sees that the option is not available.

Instead, she reads a message from Warren, which says:

_I'm coming. The golden is with me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm not trying to drag this out, I swear to god. But this scene stuck in my head and I was like fuck, I need to write it now.
> 
> So here we are. but I promise, we are so, so, so close. Bear with me. We are resolving Elliott's goddamn familial problems. And ooh boy, shield level 4. Let's go. I have only ever once self revived myself properly, and it was all for naught, since I got wingmanned ten seconds later. But at least I used up the shield in the process, giving them nothing of value.


	32. Play Apex

Liam's friends don't call Warren much anymore.

The year after Liam was killed, they'd contacted him.

Asked for a special favor.

And in his grief, attempting to deal with the loss of his brother, he'd answered their call.

But the same people were in the news  just weeks later.

Bringing down a skyscraper.

Tearing down a construction site with fire bombs and mortars, injuring hundreds and killing dozens.

A poor, impoverished group, on the edge of neutral space.

Desperately in need of medical assistance.

But it wasn't just medical assistance they needed.

Warren gently touches the casing of the human world's only Level 4 knock down shield.

One of his greatest technical accomplishments.

And one he would be quite proud of, if he wasn't afraid of what it could bring to the Outlands.

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the cheap cushions of the sketchy, banged up trade ship he'd managed to get a last minute ticket onto.

He actually prefers dingy ships with extralegal means of supporting themselves, as they ask less questions and require less paper work.

And there are less eyes on him, as no one wants to make make themselves look more suspicious by surreptitiously checking out other passengers.

The only thing he has to worry about is people potentially trying to steal his things while he's asleep.

And he doesn't intend to sleep.

For the next 48 hours, he will be poring over the medical records of this "Bloodhound" person he's been asked by his little brother to save.

* * *

 

Elliott has been sitting by Bloodhound's bed for almost a full day now.

His neck aches and his back hurts from falling asleep in such an uncomfortable chair, but he can't think of anything else to do.

People have been pestering him all day, nurses, doctors, technicians, all begging him to speak to the reporters constantly clogging their lobby or their hallways, all trying to get a chance to speak with him, but he doesn't want to talk to any of them.

Normally he might bask in their attention, loving the spotlight and the admiration, but he doesn't feel like basking right now.

Not when Bloodhound looks like death warmed over, their face unbearably pale, their body still and lifeless. Only when Elliott looks very, very closely can he see the shallow rise and fall of their chest. Up, down, up, down, stutter. Resume. Up, down, up, down.

It's enough to drive him mad.

He finds himself watching it and counting how many times Bloodhound breathes.

He stops counting somewhere around 3,092.

Sometimes Sophia waits with him, holding his arm, chatting lightly with him, or simply sitting in companionable silence beside the bed. But she seems to know Elliott wants to be alone, because often she will leave and allow him to stay with Bloodhound in solitude.

Elliott goes over the events of the Apex Games slowly in his mind, as though trying to draw a moving picture of those three days.

Bloodhound had saved him at Swamp.

Then again at Bridges.

And even at Market.

He'd repaid at least one of those favors at Skull Town.

But then Bloodhound had saved him again at Watchtower.

(He remembers their fingers on his forehead, in his hair, soothing against his feverish flesh, remembers their hand in his, letting him squeeze them tight, remembers guiltily putting his head in their lap, on their shoulder at Artillery, pretending to be too tired to realize what he's doing, and his face flushes at the memories).

He might've won the game, but when the opportunity arose for him to save Bloodhound, he failed.

He let Bloodhound fall.

And now they are reduced to this.

Lying in a hospital bed, plugged in like a damaged old machine, trying to splutter its way back to life.

He feels sick just thinking about it, has to stand up and draw a little closer, force himself to see Bloodhound as a still-living, still-breathing person and not just...a corpse.

He stares at their face, at their eyes, wishing they would open.

And Bloodhound would sit up and ask him politely to give them their space.

He smiles sadly at the thought.

They are, in many ways, still a mystery to him.

"Elliott?"

His mother knocks on the wood sharply, asking for permission to enter despite the open door.

"Yeah?"

"He's arrived."

Elliott feels his stomach jolt uncomfortably.

He'd been afraid to talk to his mother.

But the thought of facing his brother is a whole other challenge, a horror on another dimension.

He gulps.

"Is he...?"

"Coming soon? Yes. He’ll be here within the hour.”

Great.

Elliott is filled with nerves and anticipation as he waits with Bloodhound, flexing his fingers and tapping his foot anxiously against the floor.

But an hour comes and goes.

His mother comes in and tells him that his brother is going to be a little late.

As if the wait could feel any worse.

Elliott waits for another hour, feeling as though every tick of the antique analog clock were the beat of his execution drum, counting down the seconds before his death.

But another hour comes and goes.

He peeks out into the hallway and his mother shrugs at him.

So he goes back inside, feeling his anxiety mounting higher and higher until he reaches a breaking point, and falls into a stress induced sleep.

And when he wakes up, groggy and disoriented, he forgets where he is for a moment, and who he’s with.

Which is why he blinks in confusion, seeing a man in black leaning over Bloodhound.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks groggily.

“Been that long, huh?” the man says dryly.

Elliott stares at him.

Then he takes in the shape of the face.

Leaner, sharper, more tired than he’d remembered.

Longer hair.

More wrinkles around the eyes, but they don’t crinkle fondly the way they used to when looking at him, so he just looks older rather than kinder.

It is Warren Witt.

“Warren,” Elliott says slowly. He feels his stomach quiver.

Yet somehow, standing in front of his brother, the fear eases somewhat.

After all of that anticipation, perhaps he’d reach critical anxiety levels and couldn’t go anywhere but down.

Or perhaps seeing his brother’s face, unfriendly, but not particularly angry, lined with exhaustion, but not hatred, has reminded him that his brother is only human.

“Get out,” Warren says abruptly.

Elliott flinches at the sharpness of his tone.

But Warren, he notices, softens just a little at the obvious sign of physical discomfort.

“I need time with them alone,” Warren says, voice a tad softer too. “We will speak later.”

Elliott nods uncertainly, eyes irresistibly drawn to his brother’s face, completely unable to look away from him. He looks at his sibling as though seeking forgiveness.

But Warren’s face is focused.

And blank.

Elliott nods.

Unlike his brother, he can’t keep a straight face.

His mouth twitches a little, wanting to say something, anything.

But then he just nods.

“Ok.”

* * *

“When did he get here?” Elliott asks his mother.

“Just a few minutes ago. How did it go?” she asks nervously.

“He just told me to get out and that we would talk later…”

“I suppose that’s good…”

“Not really...more neutral than anything.”

They sit in silence for some time.

“What did he say to you?” Elliott asks timidly.

She sighs, rubbing her sore neck.

“Just hugged me, said it was good to see me, and that he was ready to help.”

“Ah…”

They both sit uncomfortably for a while, Elliott wanting to ask her more about what Warren might’ve said to her about him in the long seven years while he was gone, and his mother wanting to ask him what he intends to say to his brother.

But neither of them voice their concerns, and they’re still sitting, in silence, when Warren, at least five hours later, finally comes out.

Elliott, eyes partially closed, head tilted slightly, jerks back awake.

His mother looks up, hands together on her lap.

“Well?” Sophia Witt speaks first. “How did it go?”

Warren rubs his eyes tiredly.

“I’ve done what I can. But it’s not looking good. The shield will keep Bloodhound stable for now, but I don’t know if it can fix the fractures in their spine, nor can I guarantee that Bloodhound’s system can withstand the shield itself.”

“What do you mean?” Elliott asks, forgetting to be worried about speaking to his brother, too concerned about Bloodhound. “Why would the shield be dangerous?”

“Because it’s made of highly dense and highly unstable chemical molecules that stimulate oxygen, but can also produce negative results in bodies that can’t withstand the imbalance or rapid stimulation of cells,” Warren says without looking at him. “Their body is on life support, it’s producing only the bare minimum it needs to survive, and only with the help of these machines. The shield can fight off decay, but I’m not sure for how long. I can't increase its power because Bloodhound's body won't be able to compensate." 

“So we’re back to square one…” Elliott grumbles.

Now Warren looks at him.

He looks a trifle annoyed.

“I’d say they have a better chance of surviving an extra week,” he says coldly. “So you have about that much time left to say your goodbyes.”

Elliott feels anger rising in his throat, clenching his teeth tightly together, a headache beginning to throb between his eyes. 

“Did you even make an effort?” he snaps. “Or did you just go in, fuck around, and then come out just so you could tell me that you did nothing?"

A muscle in Warren’s jaw clenches tightly.

“Do you really think I would let a person die just to spite you? You forget that just because we’re related by blood doesn’t mean I would stoop to your level.”

Elliott takes a step forward, looking livid.

“Meaning what?”

“I thought I was clear, but I see you’re as dull as ever,” Warren hisses, getting in his youngest brother’s face. Now Elliott sees his anger, can see how it had been contained before, hiding behind a wall of indifference. It burns in his eyes and his face, now red with rage. “You let Liam die because you didn’t care. Because he was what you always wanted to be. And you were jealous, wanted the spotlight.”

Elliott grabs him by the collar.

Warren grasps at his wrists, trying to shove his hands off of him, looking furious.

"Why are you just trying to hurt me?!" Elliott shouts at him. 

"I've done more for them than any other doctor could!" Warren retorts. "But that's not enough for you, because you think I'm some miracle worker, some minor medical deity that can fix all of your woes, but who chooses not to because of some petty grievance I had with you in the past!" 

“Hey- hey!” Sophia yells, but the two men pay her no attention for once. 

“Why could you  never let me explain myself?” Elliott practically yells into his face, their noses mere millimeters away from each other. “Why can’t you accept that it was an accident? That I didn’t mean to do it, that I’d take it back, that I’m-I’m so sorry, that I’d do anything to have him back-”

“Because it doesn’t _matter!”_ Warren roars, shoving Elliott off him with so much force that his back smacks into the wall. He stumbles, staggering to the right, just barely catching himself before he falls. “Because you can apologize as much as you want, make any excuse you want, about it being an accident, it being a mistake, or even talk about how you tried to make him see sense, _it doesn’t matter._ He’s gone. He’s never coming back. No golden shield for him. Nothing for him, ever again.”

“I’m sorry!” Elliott bellows back at him. “I’m...I’m sorry. I...I...you’re right. You’re…”

Something in his chest is leaking liquid fire through out his body, burning shame into his belly, his core.

Warren stares at him, breathing hard.

“You’re right,” Elliott whispers. “But not about how I felt about Liam. I loved him. I loved him, Warren, I cared about him so much that I entered this stupid game hoping someone would punish me for what I did, and everything I did after that. For seven years, I’ve been here, in the ring, and I never even knew it. I’m sorry that I’m sorry, I'm sorry I did something so worth being sorry about, Warren. I fucked up. I did something stupid and foolish and then it blew up in my face, and then Liam died. I killed him. And I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. Isn't that punishment enough? Is it not enough for you?”

Warren had flinched when he’d finally said the cursed words aloud.

He’d shuddered away from his mother and brother now, looking pained, clutching his head.

“He loved you,” Warren groans. Tears are leaking out of the corners of his eyes, but his face is still angry, still tight. “He loved you so much, did you know that?”

“I knew. I always knew.”

“I can’t forgive you. I can’t,” his brother says, backing down the hall. “Maybe Mom can move on, maybe you can, but I can’t. I won’t.”

And with that, he runs away.

* * *

 

Warren feels like a child, but he can’t stop himself from pelting through the hospital, looking for the nearest exit.

He’d felt jittery entering the hospital, felt his stomach flip outside the door to the room Elliott’s friend was in.

But actually seeing Elliott had brought up a swell of ugly emotions in him, ones he had done his best to control and keep buried for years.

Actually speaking to him had unleashed a long abused beast chained up inside of him, and he’d felt like he could claw Elliott’s throat out.

So instead he’d ran.

And he runs now, jogging down the stairs and out into the lobby.

Out into the sunlight.

Elliott is chasing him, he’s dimly aware of.

But he ignores his little brother, keeps going, doesn’t stop until he reaches the top of the hill overlooking the hospital, where there is a fish pond, a bench, and a small, imported cherry blossom tree planted.

Here he pivots, and without looking at Elliott, shouts, “Go away, Elliott!”

“No!” his brother says stubbornly.

“You’re such a fucking pest!” Warren yells, shoving him in the chest. Still not looking him in the eye. 

“That’s what little brothers are! Nothing but pests!”

Elliott shoves him back.

They begin shoving one another as though they’re two little boys, fighting on a playground.

Things escalate a little, however, when Warren slaps him across the face.

Elliott winces, letting out a grunt of pain, but he doesn’t move to retaliate.

He just holds his face, looking at Warren with both physical and emotional pain in his eyes. 

“Did that feel good?” he asks.

“You had it coming.”

“You want to do it again?”

Warren slaps him again, this time from the opposite direction.

Elliott winces, rubbing his sore cheeks, trying to casually shrug it off.

“Is that all  you got?” he taunts him. “Shouldn’t you be punching me instead of slapping me like a sissy?”

That gets him another slap, this one more close-palmed.

“You always were such a sissy!” Elliott yells impetuously, sounding like a small boy insulting another little boy in the sandbox.

His brother slaps him again.

Elliott, reeling from this one, which has more force behind it, falls to the ground, a little dazed, his ears ringing.

Warren falls on top of him, pinning him to the ground, his fingers digging into the front of Elliott’s suit.

“Come on!” Elliott shouts in his face. “Beat the shit out of me! Kick me! Punch me! Do whatever the hell it takes to get over it! Because I don’t care if you hate me, or even kill me! I can see you’re still fucked up after all these years! And I still love you. I still love you, Warren. And I want you to fucking get over this. I want you to be fucking happy. To fucking heal. So do whatever you have to! Do whatever makes you feel good! Beat the hell out of me if that’s what does it!”

“It doesn’t!” Warren screams, spit flying through the air, some of it landing on Elliott’s face. “It doesn’t make me feel good, you stupid little bastard. I hate it. I hate feeling like this, I’m not this kind of person. You made me this way, and I hate it. I hate how I feel! I hate the person you turned me into, I-I-”

His face is so red Elliott is worried he’s popped a blood vessel.

Suddenly Warren's eyes are watery again, and his face contorts with heavy emotions as he stares down at his little brother, his hands clenched in the cloth of his suit.

“I just want things to be the way they used to be,” he chokes out, his eyes suddenly terrified, as though afraid of revealing his true feelings. “I just want Liam back. I want my older brother back.”

“So do I,” Elliott whispers, his own voice beginning to choke up. “I miss him so much.”

Warren pushes himself up and Elliott moves back, sliding out from under him.

But to his shock, and relief, Warren surges forward and seizes him into a tight hug, yanking him as close as humanly possible, his fingers clenched in the back of his suit, pulling at the cloth, his face buried in his neck, his heart, big and warm and full of the same gentle sensitivity that Elliott had known his entire life, beating hard against his. He’s squeezing him so tightly, so hard Elliott can’t breathe, but he doesn’t care.

He hugs him back just as fiercely, his body wracked with the release of multiple repressed emotions, years and years of bad energy, stored up in two hurt and broken people.

“I’m sorry,” Elliott says again, into his ear this time. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“I wanted my little brother back too,” Warren sobs, his voice blubbery and thick. His tears soak Elliott’s clothing, but he doesn’t notice or care. “I wanted to just hate you forever. I never wanted to see you again.”

He’s rocking him slowly, Elliott realizes. Just like when they were boys, and Elliott would cry because he got sand in his eyes or he tripped on a rock and cut his knee.

Just like he rocked Talos after he saved him from a fire.

Just like he would rock Liam, briefly, playfully, from side to side whenever he came home after a long voyage.

Warm, affectionate.

Sensitive. Kind.

This is the Warren he remembers.

The same Warren that had slapped him, had hated him, is also the same Warren that still loves him, and had missed him.

They exist together, in the same body, and Elliott, strangely enough, understands that completely.

“I love you,” Warren whispers. “I love you, little brother. I didn’t want to come because I knew that as soon as I saw you, I’d forgive you. And I didn’t want to. It felt like-”

“A betrayal of Liam’s memory, yeah, I know,” Elliott finishes for him. “I understand. I’d understand if you hated me.”

“I can’t. Do you think Liam would be angry?”

“No. I think he’d understand.”

Somehow, if it’s even possible, Warren manages to hug him tighter.

“I hope so.”

* * *

 

The two brothers lie side by side on the ground near the bench, both still breathing hard, their bodies no longer tangled, but loose, splayed out under the stars, staring up at the night sky.

“Do you think we’ll see him again someday?” Warren asks.

“I don’t know. I hope,” Elliott answers truthfully.

They are silent for some time, their breathing slowly turning back to normal.

But Warren breaks the silence with an abrupt question.

“What have you been up to, Elliott?” Warren asks.

His brother begins to laugh.

And once he starts, he just can’t stop. 

He laughs and laughs and laughs until his chest begins to hurt, his lungs feeling sore, his rib cage burning with the force of it.

And Warren laughs with him at his own question, guffawing loudly, embarrassingly, with undignified, uninhibited pig-like grunts and squeals.

They laugh as they haven’t laughed in a long time.

Only when both are completely out of breath, do they stop.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Warren says.

“No. Don’t be. You needed the time.”

“And I did try my best. I did. I’m sorry about your friend. But there’s nothing I can do for them. The shield is only-only a temporary solution, as long as Bloodhound is as weak as they are…”

“I understand,” Elliott murmurs. “God, I-it’s horrible, but I understand.”

“If only they were producing enough oxygen, protein, antibodies, collagen, but they need so much more, their body can’t produce enough, and there’s nothing guaranteed to shock their body back to its original state-”

Suddenly, the youngest Witt brother sits straight up.

“Wait.”

“What? What’s wrong?” Warren asks, alarmed, sitting up with him.

“Bloodhound has something on them. Something they used in the ring, a serum of some kind, or like, a steroid of some sort,” Elliott says quickly, tripping over some of his words with excitement.  “Could that do it?”

“What? A steroid? No? More testosterone and muscle mass are not something a person needs when they’re on death’s door, Elliott,” Warren says bemusedly.

“No, it’s not a regular steroid, it’s something else!” Elliott insists. “It made them faster, stronger, more aware, but it wore off after just a short time. Whatever it was, it was powerful. But it left the system quickly. So maybe-”

“Something to counterbalance some of the imbalance of the shield’s proteins and Bloodhound’s weakened body,” Warren murmurs. “Where is this thing? I would need to run some tests on it, but it’s an idea…”

Elliott springs to his feet like an energetic toddler.

“Come with me!”

He seizes Warren’s hand and begins to yank the older man after him, sprinting full tilt, down the hill.

And for a wild moment, the two grown men could be mistaken for two children.

A little brother dragging his big brother by the hand to see his newest invention.

Sophia Witt, who’d been watching nervously in front of the hospital doors, dives out of the way as the two come plowing passed her.

She smiles, dried tears on her cheeks as well.

For the first time in a long time, she feels as though her family is whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmmmmmmmm, feral juice saves the day, perhaps?


	33. New Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why didn't ya'll tell me I accidentally named two chapters the same thing? two DAYS ya'll let me live with that embarrassment, unbelievable.

_Bloodhound prefers solitude._

_Prefers the quiet and serene outdoors to the bustle of the city, the hum of electric motors, and thrum of machinery everywhere._

_It has been seven years since they escaped Holthas._

_They had begun their career as a big gamer hunter, taking special requests and challenges from towns and cities all over the Frontier, known far and wide as a masked hunter whose identity and origin are unknown, but who can kill anything that bleeds._

_It had started off with drunken alien monster hunters daring them to bring back better catches than them, creatures with claws heavier than a human head, teeth bigger than the human torso. They boasted in bars that none could bring back hearts as big as theirs, eyes as glistening, or heads to be mounted as fearsome as theirs._

_Bloodhound had publicly challenged them, stating that they could._

_And they had bet against them._

_Within a month, hunters all over the system had learned to stop making bets against Bloodhound._

_Because they are fearless._

_Determined._

_And every day, their technology improves. The eye of the Allfather grows sharper, their mask better suited to transmit and process data, and better able to resist toxins in alien air._

_They begin to receive requests from wealthy independent corporate financiers, eager for exotic animal skins, organs, and heads to mount over their mantelpieces._

_Bloodhound takes their money, even knowing that people like this are the exact ones who'd stolen their land, murdered their family._

_They take their money, because they need it to fund their travels, so that they can search for the remains of their family._

_And as they begin to  lose hope of ever finding where their family had gone in those solitary seven years, they begin to learn that one's morals are often tested in a wide, lonely, uncaring galaxy._

_One's core beliefs must become flexible, adaptable, in a harsh environment._

_They prefer working with illegal poachers to take down animals specifically prohibited by the IMC. They prefer taking on special requests from exotic game hunters._

_But they must work for corporate businessmen. Simply because they have much more money to offer, and they need money._

_They do not make their distaste known._

_They simply nod, and fulfill their requests._

_And after a while, it stops bothering what remains of their heart._

_After the first four years, they had begun to grow bored of hunting wild animals._

_Something inside them is broken, bored, feeling numb, dispassionate, and desiring a more dangerous hunt._

_They begin to branch out into bounty hunting._

_Although they dislike the noise of the city, the smog, the pollution, the hoards of human filth, they can withstand all of these things so long as the reward is high enough._

_And many times it is._

_It has been three years since they started bounty hunting._

_Although they would hesitate to call themselves an assassin for hire, they do admit, it is much easier bringing bounties back dead rather than alive._

_Much easier to carry, for one thing._

_So they do not flinch, or even react, when a client asks for the head of one Dr. Marcus Banton._

_A wanted man, whose crimes against humanity were known far and wide, experimenting on children with deadly, untested growth hormones, attacking the human nervous system with deadly neurotoxins to see what would happen to their reflexes, the operations he was in charge of for the privately owned medical corps, the Wasserman, which were still under investigation by the Human Rights Intergalatic Convention._

_Even if they weren't a piece of human scum, Bloodhound wouldn't feel particularly torn up over murdering another human being._

_After all, they're all the same._

_Apex Predators, IMC stooges, Geth Semaines, civilians who allow the others to have their power, they're a rotten little species that doesn't deserve their pity or their time._

_The only good humans they had known are long gone, the victims of the cruel ones._

_It seems so pointless to grow attached to someone, when that person, if they are lovable at all, will only be hurt and destroyed by the numerous unlovable humans out there._

_The planet Banton had taken refuge on is a jungle._

_It is fraught with deadly wild plants and animals, but Bloodhound absentmindedly walks through all of it as though on a stroll._

_There is very little danger here for them._

_When they find the doctor, he is sitting in his study, poring over his notes._

_Without looking up, he waves his hand, annoyed._

_"I've been expecting you," he says distractedly. "Shut the door."_

_Bloodhound enters the threshold of the decrepit and run down shack that the doctor had been working in._

_Ivy grows up the walls, which are covered in muddy stains and are crumbling in some places. Sunlight streams in several holes in the building._

_The doctor himself is a wreck, skinny, his skin red and irritated, his clothes rather torn, and absolutely filthy._

_He also smells strongly of piss._

_Bloodhound raises their knife almost pityingly, prepared to put him out of his misery._

_"Ah, but don't you want to know what it does?" the doctor says, still without looking at them._

_"I'm going to kill you," Bloodhound says calmly. "You may finish whatever it is you are doing, but you are not going to leave this planet alive."_

_"Quite understandable," the doctor says with a shrug. "I knew they'd catch up with me one day. But you. Your name is Bloodhound, isn't it? I've heard of you. Best paid thug in the galaxy."_

_"If only," Bloodhound murmurs._

_They advance on him, their dagger in hand._

_"Whose hair is that?" the doctor asks dryly, still not looking at Bloodhound, but now staring at the handle of the knife._

_"None of your business."_

_"A father's? A mother's? Perhaps a lover's?"_

_"Are you hard of hearing?"_

_The doctor grins, finally looking at Bloodhound's face._

_"What if I told you I could bring them back to life?"_

_"I would kill you, and then laugh."_

_"A cruel, yet rather humorous man. I like it."_

_"Do not call me a man."_

_"Ah. Touchy subject?"_

_"No. Simply none of your business."_

_The doctor had been strange._

_Walking around Bloodhound as though they were nothing more than an annoying, but harmless colleague._

_He bustles around, throwing things here and there, moving his papers._

_"I don't suppose I could appeal to your better nature?"_

_"You are a child murderer, a sadist, and a war criminal," Bloodhound says dryly. "You do not deserve to be shown the better side of human nature."_

_"True enough, I suppose."_

_"And even if you were not. I would kill you anyway."_

_"Quite the beast, aren't you?"_

_Bloodhound turns the knife around in their hand by twirling it between their fingers._

_They prepare to throw it._

_But just as they raise their hand, he turns around and holds up a bright red vial for them to see._

_"You know, this is worth a lot of money," he says._

_Bloodhound pauses._

_They stare at him._

_"What is it?" they ask cautiously._

_"A muscle enhancer that increases speed, agility, strength, and all of the senses."_

_"So, just a steroid."_

_"No, not just a steroid," the doctor says irritably. "It is temporary. It does not cause long term side effects. It temporarily grants its user a burst of adrenaline, oxygen, and a special protein known as Damasca. I gathered it myself from a moss on a dangerous, now-restricted planet. The moss, when its spores are inhaled, causes a neurotoxin to be released in the human brain, stimulating the growth of deadly tumors. But when treated properly with alkaline solutions, the spores are killed and the moss itself becomes harmless. It can be used to stimulate the human brain, not only turning off the inhibitors that force the human body not to push itself passed its breaking point, but also enhance the human body with its perfect mimicry of human strength! You see, the true brilliance is not only that it bestows strength. In this form, it also builds off your own strength. The serum will keep you strong and make you stronger. And while it's only for a short time, it's still the perfect tool for someone who's down on their luck, in a desperate situation, wouldn't you say?"_

_Bloodhound stares distrustfully at the vial._

_"It sounds like your usual bag of tricks," they say. "I'm going to kill you now, if you don't mind."_

_"I suppose if I'm that close to death, then I won't beat around the bush!" the doctor says, stepping back, the slight stutter in his step the only physical sign of nervousness that Bloodhound can detect. "Spare my life, and I will give you this serum."_

_"Why would I want your miracle elixir?" the hunter asks._

_"You are a hunter, aren't you? It could give you a boost against more difficult targets. I could give you the formula. And you'd never lose any battle."_

_"I already do not lose," Bloodhound snorts._

_"Well then I suppose you could kill me, and simply sell the serum to the highest bidder," the doctor says. "After all, I'm sure anyone would love to get their hands on it. The IMC, perhaps."_

_Bloodhound stiffens._

_Not because they believe that this doctor's little serum would be of any use to the IMC, but because the doctor says IMC deliberately, watching them carefully. Very few people know that they despise the IMC. Those who do know are not the talkative types, nor are they the type to have uses for such information._

_"That strikes a chord, huh?" the doctor says slyly._

_"Even if your serum worked, and could be of any use to the IMC, then I would simply destroy it, and all of your work."_

_"That would be such a waste,"  Doctor Banton says. "Especially given how many resources and how much time was put into it."_

_"Such a shame that scum like yourself would develop a breakthrough in medical technology that could cure children of fatal diseases," Bloodhound sighs. "I suppose I'll sleep poorly for an hour tonight."_

_"You know...you and I could work very well together. I could pay you triple whatever they're paying you to take me in. And for every child specimen you bring to me, I'd pay you handsomely, up to 50,000 credits. What do you say?"_

_Bloodhound stares at him._

_The scientist meets their gaze calmly, unflinchingly._

_Until Bloodhound's dagger sinks into his shoulder, pinning him to the wall of his laboratory, the poor quality walls trembling under the force, some bricks falling out of them._

_The man finally gasps, his true fear slipping into his eyes for the first time, staring into the shadowy mask of the Outlands hunter known only as Bloodhound._

_"You are vile."_

_The man instinctively reaches for the knife in their shoulder, but they twist it in even deeper._

_"An assassin with a heart of gold?"_

_"I don't need a heart of gold or even silver to find you disgusting."_

_"There must be something in the world you want!" Banton yells._

_"There is one thing you can do for me."_

_They yank the knife out._

_He lets out a shriek of pain, clutching his bleeding shoulder, staggering back._

_They walk towards him slowly, shaking the blood off their knife rather nonchalantly as the scientist writhes on the floor._

_He flinches as Bloodhound steps down on his non-injured shoulder with their boot._

_He yelps as they push a quarter of their weight down on him, leaning forward._

_"Die."_

_Although they still do not believe in the serum, or its "powers," they figure that their client may indeed pay extra for it, whatever it truly is._

_When they bring him the doctor's head, in an icebox, the man's nose wrinkles._

_"Disgusting. But well done. You will receive 10,000 credits within the hour. Did you by any chance see what it was he was working on?"_

_"No," Bloodhound says cautiously. Something about how the man had said it puts them on edge. Carefully, as though trying to figure out what Bloodhound knows. Or perhaps trying to wiggle extra information out of them by playing nonchalant._

_"Unfortunate. I hear he was working on a super soldier medication of sorts. Something that could prevent fatigue on the battlefield, you know, something along those lines. But the laboratory is gone?"_

_"I burnt it to the ground, as you requested."_

_"Excellent. It will die with him, I suppose. But that's what he deserved. The research he did was unethical. It deserves to be buried, regardless of its value." The man speaks quickly, as though trying to play off his interest in the dead doctor's work._

_But Bloodhound wants to know more about this little serum, now that they know multiple parties had been after it._

_If their client, an underground IMC private investigator, knows about this so-called serum, then that  means the government is aware of the physical enhancing properties of the doctor's invention._

_Which means there must be some element of truth to what the desperate doctor had been saying._

_But that doesn't mean they'll take it right away._

_Tests must be run._

_Trusted medical professionals they've befriended in their travels must be consulted._

_And of course, they will be the only test subject._

“How’s it going?”

“Please stop asking every ten minutes,” Warren groans.

He’s set up his chemistry kit in one of the hospital’s adjacent research facilities.

Sophia is keeping watch over Bloodhound while her two sons are currently hovering over the flask with samples of their serum inside.

Warren pushes Elliott gently away from him.

“You’re hovering. Please stop.”

“It’s been eleven minutes.”

“That’s hardly better.”

Elliott grabs his hair exasperatedly. He looks like a mess, still wearing the same clothing he’d changed into when he himself had been released, his hair uncombed and haphazard from sleeping in a chair, his face much paler than its usual confident and lively tan.

“I just don’t understand, is it going to help or not?”

“I’m doing testing. I need to make sure this substance is going to help, not cause more harm.”

“What’s really the worst you could do?”

“Kill another human being?”

“This isn’t funny!”

“I didn’t say it was!”

Elliott glares at his brother, who stares evenly back.

“Elliott…”

“What?”

“I know you’re really worried about your friend. But you need to give me space and calm down. It’s been a long week for you. Get some rest. Mom is watching Bloodhound. I’m going to do my best to save them. You can trust me, alright? Get to sleep.”

Elliott frowns.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“I can tell you as a doctor that you aren’t.”

“When did you  become a doctor anyway?”

Warren smiles tiredly.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken, hasn’t it?”

The older man’s eyes are sagging with tiredness.

Elliott suddenly realizes that his brother has been awake for the past twelve hours, sitting in this lab, poring over his notes and typing away at his computer.

He’s probably just as exhausted and irate as Elliott, just better at hiding it.

“I’m...sorry. I’ll go...take a nap. And...you should too,” he offers.

Warren blinks owlishly at him.

“It’s no big deal,” he says a little hoarsely. “I’ve gone much longer without sleeping.”

“That’s...not a good thing.”

“Didn’t say it was. But I’m used to it, Elliott. I’ll be fine. I’ll sleep when Bloodhound is in less critical condition. You get some rest. Let your big brother handle this.”

He smiles at him and gestures for him to go.

Elliott wants to protest, but at the same time, he’s swaying on his feet.

He wants to force his brother to take care of himself too.

But at the same time, he’s still worried about Bloodhound, and he doesn’t have in him to continue arguing.

He nods.

As he turns to go, his brother claps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing him comfortingly.

“I’ll do everything I can,” he says.

“I trust you,” Elliott says back.

It feels like a lifetime of feelings pass between the two brothers in that nanosecond of eye contact, a flood of unspoken emotions, both positive and negative, rushing between them.

But they don’t say any more.

And Elliott collapses on the nearest unused hospital gurney, rolled into an empty hospital room.

He’s asleep before his head has even hit the pillow.

_He’s in Market, juggling Wingmans, with an invisible crowd of people pointing and laughing at him, wearing a bell-covered jester’s costume with a purple, white, and teal jester’s cap on his head. Lifeline is laughing at him, clapping excitedly, while Bangalore looks annoyed, and Wraith not particularly impressed. Caustic is in his underwear, sitting over a dunk tank full of mustard. Gibraltar is throwing balls at the lever, trying to get him to fall in. The woman in the lab coat is frantically writing notes while the woman who’d interviewed him before the Game is playing the bagpipes very, very off key._

_He is rather amused, as in dreams such as this, things are strange, but not particularly hostile or alarming. His unconscious mind does not question the bizarre, merely accepting it as it is (so long as it doesn't seem harmful)._

_He throws a Wingman high into the air._

_The light overhead flashes._

_And when he looks back down, he sees Bloodhound, without their mask on, in the crowd, outlined perfectly by silver light, the one recognizable face in a sea of shadowy faces._

_He drops the Wingmans in surprise, all of them clattering to the floor, and is immediately embarrassed._

_Maybe Bloodhound hadn’t seen him._

_Oh but of course they had seen him, they’re looking right at him._

_He fakes a confident smile anyway, pretending that he’d meant to do that._

_He yanks off his jester's hat and_ _walks over to them, parting the crowd with ease and somehow hearing them perfectly over the noise._

_“You come here often?” he asks._

_Bloodhound stares at him._

_“Is this what your dreams often look like?” they ask._

_He flushes._

_“Yeah?”_

_They blink, even their ruined eye perplexed._

_Then they let out a light, silvery laugh that he can hear over thunderous applause and raucous laughter as Caustic is dumped in the mustard tank._

_He feels something warm spark in his belly at the sound._

_“Quite amusing. Thank you for inviting me.”_

_“You know, we could blow this joint any time,” Elliott says. “Go somewhere quieter, to talk or...do whatever.”_

_Because it’s a dream, and maybe if dream Elliott is smooth enough, he can get dream Bloodhound to make out with him. Might as well try._

_Bloodhound smiles, knowing his thoughts because this is a dream, and maybe he said it aloud, he doesn’t know._

_“Do you find me attractive?”_

_“I dig the sexy masked hunter look, yeah,” Elliott says with a laugh. Market is suddenly empty, and they are completely alone, standing next to one another near the stairs, Bloodhound a step below, Elliott a step above. “You’ve saved my life, you’re a badass. And there’s something really sexy about someone who knows how to throw knives. I don’t know what it is.”_

_“You’re a reckless man, Elliott Witt. Flirting with danger.”_

_“No one ever accused me of being smart. Kind of one of my best attributes, I think.”_

_“I said reckless, not stupid.”_

_They’re walking through Swamp together, the moon shining down from overhead._

_Elliott is being pecked by at least three ravens, which are all cawing and flapping around his head, plucking at his clothing._

_“Get away!”_

_“Leave them be,” Bloodhound chastises him._

_He stops moving, and they still, two landing on his shoulders, one landing on his head._

_“That’s a good look for you.”_

_“Very funny.”_

_They’re at Pit, a decapitated head in Bloodhound’s hands, the man's hair firmly grasped between their fingers._

_Their back is to him._

_Blood drips on the dusty ground._

_He stares at the head, wondering whose it is._

_Bloodhound’s majestic red hair seems almost as though it is made of fire, blinding under a powerful beam of light that certainly would never reach the real Pit._

_They turn to the side, watching him out of the corner of their working eye, which stares piercingly at him, almost through him._

_“You did well. You won us the game single-handedly. Congratulations.”_

_“Caustic helped. So did you.”_

_“But it was you who was still standing. You who claimed victory for our team. Be proud of that, Elliott.”_

_“I am. I just wish you could thank me in real life.”_

_Bloodhound turns back forward._

_The head falls to the ground._

_It is not the face of anyone he knows._

_In fact, it’s a blank face, like that of a mannequin’s._

_They are seated in the small room they had first met in, Bloodhound on one side of the table he’d been interviewed across while being evaluated for the Apex Games, and Elliott on the other. Caustic takes notes in the corner, wearing an odd grey jumpsuit._

_“There are many ways to say goodbye, Elliott. Many different  kinds of people out there, with their own special ways. How will  you say goodbye?”_

_“I won’t,” Elliott says stubbornly. “I’m not saying goodbye to you. You’re not leaving.”_

_Bloodhound frowns at him, suddenly wearing glasses and tapping on a clipboard with a pen._

_“A non-answer. Whatever will we do with you?”_

_“You aren’t going to die.”_

_“We all die.”_

_“Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for years. You’re going to be old and gray when you die. And you’ll be telling all your  kids about your people and your culture so that it can go on forever.”_

_“Nothing lasts forever.”_

_“Not with that attitude.”_

_“Not with any attitude, Elliott.”_

_They are knee-deep in blood at Cascades._

_Flies swarming over their heads like a black cloud. As Elliott watches, they organize into the shape of a Peacekeeper._

_“Every time I entered the Apex Games, I made peace with the universe. I knew that someday, I would be destined to die. Someday, I would be released from this world, and sent to the next. And this is my time. Do not be sad for me, Elliott. Do not mourn me. Remember me. And smile.”_

_“I don’t want to remember you. I want to talk to you. I want you to teach me how to throw knives like that. I want you to tell me more about your people, about the Allfather, about your language, and the friends and family you’re trying to find. I want to find them with you. I want to make up for all the evil I’ve done and-and I want to find my own family too.”_

_“These are worthy goals, Elliott,” Bloodhound says gently._ _The blood swishes around their knees._ _The flies disperse like the shots of a Peacekeeper, spreading themselves out and vanishing. "_ _But you will have to accomplish them without me.”_

_“I can’t. I would’ve never have set them without you. I would’ve gone my whole life thinking I didn’t  need my family, or anyone, trapped in a masochistic cycle of self hatred and self doubt, being reckless without a cause, trying to escape a part of myself that I couldn’t make peace with.”_

_“You would’ve realized all of those things eventually, on your own time, without me,” Bloodhound says patiently, smiling, eyes closed. "It is in your nature to love, and be loved. Your family is a part of who you are. You would never abandon them forever. You would always return to them eventually."_

_They are looking at him now, on the roof of Artillery._

_About to fall backwards, tumbling off._

_Their face is serene._

_He doesn’t like that._

_He lunges forward and seizes Bloodhound around the wrist, refusing to let them fall again._

_“No, I wouldn’t have,” he says stubbornly. “You lost your entire family. You lost everything. I would’ve never appreciated what I  had until I met you. My mother is here. My brother, who I thought would never forgive me, is here, trying to help me. Trying to save you. Don’t you want to meet him?”_

_“I would love to meet him. I would love to meet all of your brothers.”_

_“And my mom.”_

_“And your mother.”_

_“But…”_

_“But I can’t. I’m sorry. It is...as the Allfather willed it, long ago."_

_Their wrist dissolves in his hand._

_He sees Bloodhound falling again, suspended in midair for a brief moment, outlined by sunlight, their body limp as a corpse._

_Tumbling down, down, down, down._

_A water balloon splatters onto the pavement._

_He’s fourteen again, at school in the city._

_A mean older boy named Eddie Waverly is hanging out of the window two stories above his head, another water balloon in hand. He’s laughing hard, his eyes glued shut with the force of his chuckles._

_Elliott takes a rock and flings it up at the laughing boy._

_It hits the water balloon, which bursts in his hand._

_“Why didn’t Eddie Waverly like you?” Bloodhound inquires._

_They are sitting on the pavement, looking no older than fourteen themselves._

_He plops down beside them, looking disgruntled._

_“Because he made fun of me for being home schooled and living so far out in the ‘boonies,’” he grumbles. “Plus his oldest brother, Chip, beat my brother at a science fair once. It was so unfair.”_

_"Ooooh, does Elliott have a_ boy _friend or a_  girl _friend_ ?" _the kids jeer._

_But Bloodhound merely stares at them, tilting their head._

_"He has neither. I am nonbinary. Your thoughts on the matter are irrelevant."_

_Elliott laughs._

_"High school was so dramatic!" he yells. He grins at himself in the reflection of the trophy case, arm around the more awkward and gawky looking teenage Bloodhound. "I never thought I'd get through it. Painful times, they were."_

_“Now you laugh at such things,” Bloodhound says. “Now, the pain you remember seeming so important in the moment is...nothing. Simply a childish slight. Why should my death be any different?”_

_“It’s different. Don’t act as though people dying is the same as childhood bullying.” Elliott isn't smiling anymore._

_They are in the empty, dark auditorium._

_A room that scared him, terrified him beyond belief when he'd first been dared to sneak into it after hours to play a prank on the nerdy theater kids._

_“I never said it was. You know death, Elliott. You are not a child anymore. I am simply saying that...pain is never eternal. The things you think will kill you...don’t. Something that makes your heart quiver and your lungs ache one day will be nothing but distant painful memories the next. The night you killed Liam, you must’ve felt like the entire world was ending, like your whole universe was collapsing in on itself. A stable figure in your life who seemed like he would always be there was suddenly gone. And the guilt of knowing that it was your fault seemed like it would be too much to bear. In the moment, you can’t have thought you could survive it. You would’ve felt powerless and helpless in the moment. But with time, now you see that you could.”_

_He’s at a bar on Castor, where he danced all night with a kind local village woman whose husband had died only three months prior to work related illness._

_With a hand on her waist, the other holding her hand, he’d danced away some of her sorrow, knowing her pain and feeling as though they shared a human connection, if only tonight, in this moment._

_But now, it’s Bloodhound in his arms._

_Their face wild with excitement, with joy, an expression he has to imagine, has to be creating for his own mind’s amusement, for he can’t imagine ever seeing Bloodhound that happy, that delighted to be dancing with him._

_They have a crooked smile, misshapen due to the scars on their face, but genuine and full of character._ _He’s never seen anything so wonderful._

_They move around the room so fast everything is a blur of color and sound._

_He is deliriously happy, loves the feeling of their body against his, of their hands securely in his._

_But they stop abruptly._

_The music continues, people continue to dance, talk around them, but they stop._

_“I’ll be at peace,” they whisper as his fingers twist into the fabric of their clothing, digging into their waist. As he pulls them closer, chest to chest, terrified they are trying to leave. “I’ve suffered for long enough, haven’t I?”_

_“Stay with me,” Elliott murmurs. It’s embarrassing, to be this clingy, literally, as he hugs them close, but it’s his dream and as long as it’s not really happening, he can be as selfish as he likes. His hands both scratch at Bloodhound's back, digging through their clothing. “I want to know you. I want to hold you like this for real some day. Even if it will only hurt us both in the end, even if the prices of love are grief and heartbreak, I would pay all of that and more just for a moment like this. A moment like this lasts forever. Even long after you or I have gone, this moment would live on.”_

_They pass by him in a blur, the moments of laughter, of love, deep affection, between him and his family, between him and the people of Castor, when they were all whole. He will always miss them, will always long for the time when they were possible, but he has known forgiveness._

_He has known pain and loneliness._

_He has known great sorrow and great loss, guilt and self loathing, cruelty and kindness._

_Been a good person, and a bad person._

_Known intense physical pain and emotional pain with depths no man could swim in and survive._

_Yet here he is._

_Still here._

_The past will never come again, but the future isn’t bleak._

_His mother is still here. Warren is still here._

_They will never return to exactly how they used to be, but Elliott can live with that. He can live with it because the old times will live on forever in his memories. Here in the present, he and Warren and his mother have much to catch up on. Years of bitterness and anger to work through. It will be difficult, and perhaps they will all be discouraged by how  much time has changed them, but he knows now that the change is necessary. It is one of life’s processes, one he may look back on one day and remember with appreciation._

_“Bloodhound.”_

_The music stops._

_He is standing on the top of Watchtower._

_Teetering on the edge himself._

_Bloodhound is facing him, this time wearing their mask, watching him impartially._

_“I know my place in the universe,” he says. “I know it.”_

_Bloodhound nods._

_“And?”_

_But he doesn’t say anything._

_He slips off the edge of the building and plummets headfirst into the river below._

Elliott’s eyes slide open.

He blinks at the cold, sterile white light blinking above his head, not sure what he’s looking at.

“Elliott!”

He flinches and jerks his head to the side.

His mother jumps in surprise, having tapped him out of sleep.

“Elliott, it’s Bloodhound.”

He is instantly aware, throwing his legs over the side of the gurney.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened? Mom, don’t tell me I slept through- that while I was asleep, they-”

He’s already beginning to forget his dream, but he remembers bits and pieces of it.

Remembers Bloodhound saying goodbye.

Surely he hadn’t missed- they would’ve woken him-

“They’re going to be alright. Warren used a watered down version of their serum on them with the shield operating at a higher power. It healed the worst of the wounds. They are no longer in critical condition, or on life support. Do you understand, baby? They’re going to be alright." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now you know why i didn't tag this as major character death. lordy. you guys were really worried there for a second, huh. 
> 
> anyway, im on new medication and it's sort of fucking unbearable, which is why i was so late updating. sorry about that. 
> 
> anyway, that's really all i have to say. you kids keep being cool. later.


	34. Where Do We Go Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I highkey resisted updating this because.... I don't want it to end.
> 
> I've been enjoying writing it so much...But alas, all good things must come to an end.

It's been a long time since they've felt this tired.

Or this weak. 

Every limb seems to be weighed down with lead. 

They are not wearing their mask, or the layers that they have grown accustomed to, yet they feel more encumbered than ever before. 

A tired, but still handsome, in a dignified way, man is peering down at them. 

He looks as though he hasn't slept in days.

Yet he smiles wearily at them.

There is something familiar about his smile. 

But they cannot find the energy to speak. 

They simply close their eyes and allow themselves to fall back asleep.

* * *

 

When they wake up again, the first thing they see is the ceiling.

And their eyes focus on a grey discoloration on it without comprehending what it is. 

They stare at it without any accompanying feeling, simply looking at it and observing its shape. 

How it looks like a cloud, or perhaps a coffee stain. 

Or a small child, curled on their side, its little head gently curved inward in sleep. 

They blink at it, strangely comforted by that mental image. Then suddenly they realize that they are lying in a rather uncomfortably comfortable bed, one that is softer than anything they've ever laid on before. 

"Hi." 

They blink slowly at the sound of a voice so soft they wonder for a few seconds if they're imagining it. 

It's the older looking distinguished gentleman they had seen earlier. 

His face is rather haggard, his shabby clothes the same as the ones they had last seen him in. 

But when he sees their eyes open, he smiles, and there's something lively and boyish in his face. 

And his dimples when his cheeks crinkle look strangely familiar, but Bloodhound can't quite figure out why. 

"How are you feeling?"

They stare at him, knowing what the words mean, but still somewhat confused by his strange familiarity. 

"...Bad," they croak, wincing as their lips crack. 

"Well you should be dead, so. That's pretty good, I think, feeling anything at all." 

They stare at him, feeling a small stir of amusement somewhere in their aching gut. 

"Who...are you?"

"My name is Warren. I'm your...doctor. Kind of." 

"What...happened?" 

"What do you last remember?" 

Bloodhound thinks about it. 

The last thing they could remember...

"...We were fighting at Artillery...I was thrown off a roof..."

Warren blinks affably, half smile on his face. 

"That is indeed what happened, so I hear."

"...I should be dead. I was mortally wounded. I was also in the ring. Why didn't they let me die?"

"I hear that popular champions often get special treatment. And you're fairly popular, kid." 

"...But...the game. Who won?" 

As they say this, they suddenly sit up. 

And wince as their chest twinges. 

Warren gently, but firmly, pushes them back down, their head lightly hitting the pillow. 

"Elliott? What happened to him?" 

"I'm happy to hear you're so worried about him. He was really worried about you, you know." 

Bloodhound looks at him, relieved.

"So he's...alive?"

"Of course."

"And...did we win?"

"Yes. You did. Congratulations." 

They blink, body relaxing, both at the news that Elliott had survived, and their team had won. 

"So...it's over." 

"It's over. You'll be healed in no time." 

"...Thank you, Dr. Warren." 

"Oh, you can just call me Warren. It's my first name." 

Bloodhound closes their eyes, feeling fatigue settling in their bones, weighing down their limbs with exhaustion again. 

"Warren..." 

"Yeah?" 

"Is... Elliott still here?"

Warren grins. 

"Of course."

* * *

 

Warren isn't sure what to make of Elliott's friend.

On the one hand, as his patient, he views them almost fondly as his personal miracle. An accomplishment and testament to his own work, a human life he worked to save, and had succeeded in doing so. But on the other hand, they seem quite contrary to the rough, Frontier type he'd been expecting. Their face, although scarred, is somehow softer. Less hardened and cruel than he'd been assumed it would be.

And when Elliott charges in and throws both arms around their neck, yelling loudly, it transforms.

Is full of awe.

Gratitude.

Some embarrassment.

But tenderness too.

An emotion flickers through their eyes as quick as a silver fish in a stream, something like relief, or perhaps its affection, or a mix of both.

But whatever it is, it warms his heart. 

Makes him like this Bloodhound person, even though he's just met them. 

Makes him wipe at his eyes a little and turn away, because for some reason, Elliott clinging to Bloodhound's neck makes him feel as though he's intruded on something deeply private. 

He leaves the room, feeling awkward. 

And is immediately seized by his mother, who pulls her arm around his neck and yanks him away from the door, looking eagerly through the window herself.

"Are they hugging? Are they kissing?"

"Mom! I thought they were friends!" he protests as she shakes him vigorously under her arm. 

"They're a little more than that," his mother insists. "The way he talks about them, the things they've been through, how they've changed my son...I'm telling you right now. He'll be bringing them home for the holidays in a month." 

"That's ridiculous. Elliott isn't the type to settle down," Warren says, worming out of her grip finally. "Come on, Mom, even if they are bonding, you can't just watch through the window-"

"They seem so nice, don't they?" she murmurs as she lets her oldest son pull her away. "Something about their face is just...so humble. So unassuming, and patient. I bet they're nice. I bet they're funny-"

"Keep moving, old lady."

"What did you just call me, old man?!"

* * *

 

Elliott wants to let go of Bloodhound's neck, but he can't seem to force himself to do it. 

Bloodhound's hands are clutching at his shoulder blades, arms under his, fingers digging into the cloth of his back, their forehead buried in his chest. 

They stay there for a long time, Elliott standing, crouched over his friend, arms around their neck, and Bloodhound with their hands on his back, body firm and rigid and so very alive. 

He worries every second that Bloodhound is uncomfortable, or that they will push him off, looking annoyed or embarrassed sooner or later, but they seem content to just hold onto him.

And he tries not to look too much into that.

Because he doesn't want to fool himself into thinking that they- that they could be-

"Elliott." 

Their fingers relax, and they let go.

And he reluctantly lets go too, steps back, feeling warm in the face.

But Bloodhound stares evenly at him, looking serene, if tired. 

"Elliott...you survived. I'm glad."

He grins and gives them a quick, light pat on the knee.

"Of course I did. You doubted me?"

"Maybe."

"That hurts." 

"What happened?"

"It's a long story...one I look forward to sharing with you later, when you're feeling better." 

Bloodhound's tired eyes turn to him.

"You won for us." 

"I did."

"You told me you'd pay me back..."

"And I did. And I even clutched a win for Caustic too." 

"That's...amazing, Elliott. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Tentatively, timidly, Bloodhound is smiling at him. 

Actually smiling.

Elliott feels his heart skip a beat.

Which prompts him to look away, feeling his chest tingling with too much nervous, and excited, energy. 

They are both silent for some time, one looking away out of bashfulness, the other smiling at him. 

But after a few minutes, the smile slides off of Bloodhound's face. 

"Don't you have to leave soon?" 

"...no? What do I have, an important date?" Elliott asks bemusedly.

"...I am fine. You do not have to wait here for me anymore. You are free to go." 

"...I guess. I guess I am," Elliott says reluctantly. “But I thought I’d make sure you were ok. Make sure the recovery goes smoothly...I mean, I did bring my brother all the way out here...some doctor he’d be if he just left as soon as it looked like his patient was all better, you know?”

Bloodhound’s eyes widen. 

“Your brother?” 

Elliott looks at them. 

Then he bursts into giggles. 

“That’s a long story too.” 

At first, Bloodhound just stares at him, unsettled, and unhappy for reasons they don’t understand yet.

But after a moment, Elliott’s laughter starts to get to them.

And they join in, laughing quietly with him. 

* * *

“So that’s Warren Witt…”

Elliott looks up from the hospital bench at the heavens above them. 

The sky is an inky black, full of bright white stars, as numerous as grains of sand poured over a canvas. This planet, less developed and industrialized than others, for the sole purpose of keeping the island well regulated, has less smog and air pollution than Elliott is used to.

Now he and Bloodhound sit under the stars, beneath billions of twinkling lights.

Bloodhound has another mask on, this one a replacement for their broken one. 

Their raven, Muninn, had been retrieved from one of the Apex coordinators, who had found it during clean up of the island and had held onto it in a cage for safe keeping. Now the bird hops on Bloodhound’s shoulder, staring Elliott down with its beady little eyes. 

But it hadn’t snapped at his fingers when he’d reached to pull Bloodhound's arm over his shoulder to help them stumble outside. 

In fact, after they made their way up the hill, to the hospital bench, it had hopped off of Bloodhound and come right onto Elliott. 

It had even lightly tugged at the clothing on his shoulder, almost affectionately. 

He had smiled at it and gently run a finger over its silky black head, feeling Bloodhound’s amused gaze on him as he did so. 

“That’s Warren…”

“He looks a lot like you.”

“What? Really? I don’t think so… he looks more like Mom, I look more like Dad-” 

“I don’t know what it is about him, but I could see just a little bit of you in him when I first met him….”

“Really?”

“Something in his smile, I guess. Or the eyes maybe…” 

“That right?”

“He’s also quite good looking.”

“Don’t tell me you’re crushing on my older brother,” Elliott groans.

“Well he _is_ quite good looking…”

“Only when you’re hopped up on painkillers!” 

“That smile is its own painkiller,” Bloodhound says smoothly.

Elliott stares at them, open-mouthed. 

They stare back seriously.

For about half a second.

Then he hears the tinny sound of laughter coming from behind the mask.

“You were teasing me,” he says, pretending to be scandalized. “That’s bullying. That’s not acceptable, Bloodhound. I have rights.”

“Why so upset?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be upset?” 

They laugh again, and he loves the sound of it.

But at the same time, he wishes he could see them without the mask again.

Hear their voice, their laugh, without the filter. 

But Bloodhound is much more comfortable in the mask, and he has to respect their wishes, and besides, it’s none of his business how Bloodhound dresses anyway. 

“He is a very kind man. Very wise,” Bloodhound says after a while, more seriously. “I cannot thank him enough for saving my life…” 

“It’s what he loves to do, don’t worry about it.” 

“But it was still a great deal of effort and time on his part, for someone he hardly knew. It was a great act of generosity, and I will be eternally grateful.”

“Well… he’ll be glad to hear it.” 

“And you...thank you, Elliott.” 

He gulps, feeling Bloodhound’s gaze on him, and unable to meet it with heat rising in his face.

“Don’t mention it.”

Every time they say his name, he gets goosebumps even though it’s humid outside tonight. 

“I must. You were the one who brought him here to save me.” 

“It was nothing.”

“It meant everything to me. You saved my life. Let me fight another day. And you and your brother were able to...reconnect. After all these years. After all the pain and suffering you two endured, both directly and indirectly caused by one another, you were able to cross the gap and begin the path of mending that bridge. That is a huge achievement, Elliott. Do not under emphasize the magnitude of this gesture, both to me, and to you.” 

Elliott waves his hands dismissively, embarrassed. 

“It was nothing.”

“You never play modest for the cameras…”

“Well the cameras just want to see me look macho and handsome. You’re trying to make me cry… I think you’re just hoping I’ll get all soppy and emotional and hug you again… it won’t work!”

“Nonsense,” Bloodhound says airily. “You’re projecting.”

“Don’t even know what that means.”

They snicker together, Elliott’s chuckling loud and immodest, and Bloodhound’s more reserved, but still full of spirit. 

The wind picks up, tossing Elliott’s hair up and down with the breeze. 

Bloodhound slips their right glove off and raises it in the air, feeling the air rushing through their fingers. 

“What are you going to do now?” the  masked hunter asks after some time. 

Elliott leans back on the bench, eyes hungrily taking in the stars like the eyes of a starving man on a silver platter of crumbs. 

“Go home with my family. They’re living on Demeter currently, in Valkana. I want to catch up with them. Make up for all that lost time. And then...I want to find Talos. All the money I just won from the Apex Games will be enough to keep me funded for at least a year or two. And unlike my mom and brother, my name isn’t dirt with the IMC. I think if I do some digging, we can at least find out if he’s dead for sure, or...or…”

He pauses, suddenly overwhelmed at the thought that Talos might be alive out there somewhere.

He feels Bloodhound’s hand on his.

He looks down, face surprised. 

Bloodhound’s bare hand squeezes his. 

“I hope you find him alive and well,” they say. 

He looks into their mask, once so intimidating and mysterious, now simply a barrier between him and the face he can’t get out of his dreams. 

“Thank you…” 

Bloodhound’s hand feels so nice on his.

But the moment ends, and they gently pull their hand away, and he reluctantly brings his back to his lap.

“And what about you?” he asks, to change the subject and lighten the suddenly heavy and super charged mood. “Where are you going?” 

“...I haven’t decided yet,” they murmur. “I would like to continue searching for the remains of my family, for records of their lives, and deaths, but...I admit, I grow weary. Perhaps it would be better not to know all of their fates...Perhaps it would be better to let the past die...for I cannot change it. All I can do is live with it…” 

Elliott nods. 

Then, impulsively, before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “What about coming to Valkana with us? Just for a little while? If you need time to think, I mean, on where to go next… you could stay with us, for a while.” 

Bloodhound is already shaking their head.

“Valkana is the city that chose to remove us,” they say. “I could not bear to go back. And my people would not go back to such a city. Not there, where it all began.”

“I know, but-”

“I’m sorry, Elliott. I wish I could. But that planet is cursed. It is poisoned by greed and corruption. And memories I do not wish to re-live…”

Elliott feels sadness, and maybe even a little desperation, pricking at his heart.

“I understand...I just wish you could come with us… I hate the thought you being...alone.” 

“I’ve been alone for a very long time,” they say kindly. 

“That doesn’t make it right. I was too. I hated it.”

“Our reasons for being alone were radically different.”

“I don’t think they were.” 

Bloodhound doesn’t respond.

But Elliott knows he’s right. 

“So..so what then?”

“So what?”

“We just say goodbye?”

“If there’s nothing else to be said.” 

“I have plenty more to say to you.”

“Like what?”

Elliott struggles to think of something. 

“Like...Like, I’d need more time to think about it.”

“More time to stall?”

“No, no, I mean...I feel like you and I have this connection. Like we need to talk to one another, need to be together- I mean, um, spend more time with each other. I feel like we have a million things we need to say, but need more time to do it, if that makes sense. I feel like… I  need your help. And you need mine. I feel like we were...like the Allfather designed for us to meet each other, right now, at this moment in our lives, and we were destined to be together- I mean, work together.” 

“You don’t believe in destiny,” Bloodhound says. They touch the mouthpiece of their mask gently. 

“Maybe not, but there’s something here. Or do you not feel the same way?”

Bloodhound pulls their glove back on. 

“You are mistaking attraction and battle adrenaline for genuine feelings of affection and purpose. It will fade. You may remember me fondly, but you will understand that we are simply...good team mates. Nothing more.”

The finality of their tone is gentle, but firm, almost harsh. 

Elliott almost winces at it, not liking how distant it makes Bloodhound seem, as though they are nothing but strangers. 

“You’ve had plenty of team mates. I’m willing to bet you didn’t tell any of them about Armann.” 

They stiffen. 

And he immediately tenses as he realizes he’s gone a step too far.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“This discussion is over, Elliott. I think you are a courageous and cunning warrior. I respect you as a team mate, and even...as a friend. I acknowledge that going out of your way to bring your own brother here to save me is something only a friend would do. And I am grateful, I always will be. But I know what it is you want. And I can’t give it to  you. I don’t have it in me anymore. I am no longer the person I once was. I cannot be what you want me to be.” 

They stand up shakily on their own.

Elliott moves to help, but they wave him off. 

“I am tired. I must rest now.”

They hobble slowly off, and Elliott follows, worried that they’ll fall.

His hand instinctively grabs their waist. 

Immediately, they shove him off. 

But the force of it is too much for them, and they fall to the ground themselves, their knees simply giving out under them. 

“Hound!” 

He reaches for them, intending to help them up, but they shove his hand away.

“Don’t call me that,” they say sharply, refusing to look at him. “Don’t.”

Elliott freezes, still half leaning to help them, hand outstretched. He watches, feeling frustrated, helpless, and a little angry as Bloodhound unsteadily gets back to their feet and begins to make their way back to the hospital. 

“Why did you kiss me then?”

Bloodhound’s shoulders are shaking.

But they stop abruptly at his words.

And the masked hunter freezes altogether, entire body taut as a bowstring. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you remember?” Elliott asks. “In the ring. When you thought you were going to die. You told me to find my family. And to find yours. And then you kissed me. And...and you said you never got to say goodbye to...him. And that this time you could. Didn’t that mean anything to you?”

Bloodhound hasn’t moved a single inch the entire time he’d been talking.

Their back begins to tremble again.

“I...I don’t remember that.”

“I didn’t make it up.”

“I...must’ve been delirious. I mistook you for Armann.”

“Am I a lot like him?” Elliott asks. “Do I look like him?”

“No.”

“Sound like him?” 

“No.”

“Act like him? Talk like him?” 

“No. Not really. Not at all.” 

“So why would I remind you of him?”

Bloodhound begins to walk again, this time moving faster, more hurriedly, despite their obvious pain.

Elliott, beginning to feel panicky for some reason, runs after them. 

“Why do I remind you of him?” 

He reaches out and puts his hand on the glass doors of the hospital entrance right beside Bloodhound’s face, stopping them from opening them. He can see the reflection of their mask in the glass,  hates how it hides how they’re truly feeling. 

Hates that he can see how tense Bloodhound’s body is, yet do nothing to put them at ease. 

“Why do I remind you of him?” he demands. “Is it the things I say?”

“No!”

“Our personalities? Are we both goofy and fun and relaxed?” 

“Yes. But no. Not the same way.”

“So what is it? Why do I remind you of him?”

“Leave me alone, Elliott.” 

“Why do I remind you of him?” 

“I said leave me alone. And get out of my way.”

“Is it our hair? Our euphemisms? Our quips? Our fighting styles? What is it, Bloodhound?” 

Bloodhound shoves at Elliott’s arm, and he lets them bat it away. 

But he follows after them, both people shivering at the rush of cold air conditioning. 

“Stop following me.” 

“I’m trying to take care of you.”

“I didn’t ask for you to.” 

“I didn’t need you to ask.”

Bloodhound stumbles into the nearest elevator, and Elliott follows. 

“Why do I remind you of him?”

“Stop asking!” 

“Is it that you started to feel the same way about me as you felt about him?” 

Bloodhound’s hand seizes Elliott’s arm with a surprising amount of strength. 

“Get out.”

He opens his mouth to protest, tries to yank his arm away, but Bloodhound’s grip is much stronger than it has any right to be. 

It forces him out of the elevator and into the lobby, where curious onlookers all stare at the two of them. 

“Goodbye, Elliott,” Bloodhound says coldly. 

With a tone of finality that pierces Elliott’s heart like a dagger as the doors close on his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for late update, I'm...a mess. 
> 
> Next chapter is the last one, boys, pucker up. I love all of your feedback and your comments and all the people who reached out to me on tumblr. It means a lot to me that you'd care so much about my work. Thank you so much, and god, am I exhausted. I'm switching medications tomorrow, and it may or may not slow down my writing. We'll see.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for sticking with me this long. 
> 
> Until the final chapter, boys.


	35. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys. I'm sorry I made you wait five days, but I couldn't bring myself to end it. I was stewing in self doubt too, and just had two of those days where everything you do seems like shit, like this story is garbage, why did I waste everyone's time, this plot is so dumb, the characters are so ooc...
> 
> But I got over it, and here you go.
> 
> My longest chapter, I'm pretty sure, and it's the last one.
> 
> And god is it fucking corny, but I hope you like it anyway. 
> 
> This has been a wild journey. Thanks for coming with me.

_ "They hate me." _

_ "I don't think so."  _

_ "They hate me. I pushed too hard, came off as too needy, they needed space-" _

_ "They're feeling vulnerable because of how close to death they were. It changes people's brain chemistry, you know." _

_ "But I shouldn't have pushed so hard-" _

_ "It wasn't your fault. You're human. You make mistakes. And you don't regret what you said, just how you said it-" _

_ "I'm a fucking idiot, Warren." _

_ "Agreed, but aren't we all?" _

_ "I've ruined everything."  _

_ "No, you haven't."  _

_ "I just wanted to help." _

_ "Don't lie to yourself, Elliott. I think you know what you really want. And they knew too." _

* * *

 

_ "A man like that doesn't want to waste his time with people like us."  _

_ Bloodhound pretends they cannot hear the conversation across the room. _

_ But their ears, sharp and detecting their name being called, fixate on their words in spite of themselves.  _

_ "How do you know he's a man?" one of the men asks. "You can't actually tell by the shape, right? Too much padding." _

_ "What self-respecting man would let people speculate on whether they're male or female? Totally a woman," another says.  _

_ "Can you imagine taking the mask off and finding an absolutely gorgeous babe, though? Talk about weird boners..."  _

_ They laugh. _

* * *

 

_ They don't always wear the mask. _

_ Sometimes they enjoy their anonymity.  _

_ In a way, without the mask on, they are more hidden.  _

_ But there are other dangers to not wearing the mask.  _

_ "Hey, beautiful! Why so glum? A face like that should be smiling all the time!"  _

_ "I bet I could make you happy-"  _

_ "Hey, where are you going? Wanna hang with me, baby?"  _

_ "I bet you're a sweet little thing..." _

* * *

 

_ You're beautiful.  _

His gentle hand on their cheek. 

_ I will protect you. _

His palm on their hip.

_ I love you. _

His lips on their forehead. 

_ There are a million ways to show you love someone without saying it aloud.  _

_ They think of Armann's touch late one night, surrounded on all sides by the oppressive noise of the city, the thrumming beneath their feet of electric trains and the hum of human activity, always moving, always buzzing with incomprehensibly dense images and words.  _

_ They think of him on top of them, knees around their waist, comfortably bracketing them, rubbing against them, holding them through one of the darkest nights of their lives.  _

_ They feel a pang of sorrow in their heart, longing that they haven't felt in a long time. _

_ Amazing how an urban hub full to bursting with human souls can make one feel so utterly alone.  _

_ Armann would understand how they dislike the city. _

_ He would understand that the ever present noise makes them sick.  _

_ They imagine what it would be like to have Armann here with them now.  _

_ Or anyone. _

_ Anyone that they could love, and know loved them back, without a doubt. _

_ Someone they didn't need to talk to or entertain. _

_ But who would hold them close and simply be there. _

* * *

 

Bloodhound stares blankly at the ceiling, wishing they could be anywhere but here.

This Apex Game had been rough, more difficult than any other they had participated in. 

Partly because they had never been so gravely injured in any previous year.

And partly because they've never had a team mate as difficult as Mirage. 

They turn over, onto their side, wincing at the slight flare up of pain in their spine.

One of Caustic’s canisters is resting on their bedside table. 

They hadn’t noticed it before, but now, staring at it, they wonder if the scientist had left it there as a token of thanks.

Or perhaps a goodbye.

No matter. 

If they are fated to cross paths again, whether in the next Apex Game, or somewhere else in this wide, mysterious universe, then they will. 

Someone knocks on the door.

It is Warren. 

Warren had come in several times over the past hour to run “tests” on them.

But he’s distracted, going over the same data, doing multiple blood tests and fussing over the same chemical imbalances and readouts. He seems as though he has something he wants to say, but can’t. His eyes nervously flicker towards Bloodhound from time to time, as though trying to pick the right moment to approach them.

But every time, when Bloodhound meets his gaze, he flushes slightly and looks away, pretending to be looking at their vitals. 

They are rather amused by his antics at first, reminded strongly of Elliott. 

But at the thought of Elliott, their mood is soured, and when Warren comes in to check their blood pressure for the fourth time, they’re forced to say something. 

“Warren, I am thankful for your help. But I am fine. Please allow me to leave,” they say firmly.

He jumps as though surprised to find that Bloodhound can indeed still speak. 

“You are,” he says reluctantly. He pulls his heart scanner away from their chest. “You’ve made a wonderful recovery…”

“It’s all thanks to you. I owe you one.” 

“Nah. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“I do.” They pull a slip of paper out of their sleeve and hand it to them. On it are scribbled star coordinates and a signal number. “You can get a message sent to me here if you ever need me.” 

“Ah...thanks,” Warren says, taking the slip and staring at it blankly. “But...I don’t know. I really only came to help Elliott…” 

“Nonetheless… I appreciate it.” 

“...About Elliott…” Warren pauses, looking horribly awkward. Bloodhound had been expecting him to say something along those lines for some time now. They raise their hands. 

“I understand that he is your brother. And I owe him my life, for more than this one time. But I think it is better that we do not speak again. He has never participated in an Apex Game  before. He does not understand how the ring can affect a person’s mind, and their motivations. We all get a little...lost in it. Once we leave it, it takes time for its effect to wear off. He thinks that he...cares a great deal about me. But with time, he will forget about me, and find someone else.”

Warren blinks. 

“I suppose it’s possible. But I’ve known him for longer than you  have, even if he has changed a lot. He’s a lot more sensitive than you’d think under all of that bravado. He really cares about you, you know. I’m not sure if he would’ve ever tried to make up with me if your life hadn’t been on the line.” 

“He would’ve. He loves his family, it would’ve taken time, but-”

“But for you, he came to us sooner. And that’s still significant. Life is short, and we Witts can be stubborn,” Warren says patiently. “Listen, I don’t know you very well. But I know my brother thinks you’re special. I mean, in that mask, do you really think his attraction to you is only superficial?”

“It’s not a matter of simple physical attraction. He believes we have a deeper connection. But the ring affects everyone differently. Elliott simply wants me to be something I am not.”

“And what is that?” Warren asks. He stares earnestly at Bloodhound. It’s amazing how different he can look from Elliott, with different hair, different eye color, a different voice, and temperament, but how ridiculously similar he can look sometimes when he smiles, or frowns thoughtfully. 

“I think you know.” 

Warren recoils. 

“...I’m...sorry you feel that...you can’t return his feelings. That’s entirely up to you, and I respect that. All I can vouch for are my brother’s intentions.” 

“Those were never in question,” Bloodhound murmurs. “Not really.” 

Warren bites his lip. 

Bloodhound stares at him hard, knowing what he wants to say.

Daring him to say it. 

But Warren is different than Elliott in many respects. 

And he doesn’t push them any further. 

Instead he nods and offers them his hand. 

“It was lovely to meet you.”

* * *

 

They leave late at night.

They gather their things, politely kept in a safe across from their hospital bed. 

Their serum supply had been depleted, but they have extras waiting for them at the same hideout they had given to Warren. That will be their next stop, to rest away from people, and plan their next steps. 

This game had been rough. 

But at least the money they had received for winning the game will ensure a long rest, and funds for a long future interplanetary trip. 

They tried to leave late at night because they hadn’t wanted to run into Warren. Or Elliott. 

The last person they had expected to run into was Sophia Witt. 

Sitting at their shuttle stop, reading a small leather bound book. 

They hesitate.

“No need to worry,” she says absentmindedly. “I’m not here to stop you or ask you to do anything. Just want to talk, is all.” 

They cautiously sit next to her. 

They hadn’t seen much of Elliott’s mother.

She had waved at them from the hallway.

Occasionally smiled to them, nodded when they passed by with Elliott. 

But she hadn’t directly spoken to them, and certainly not alone with them, since they’d been here. 

They aren’t sure what to make of her. 

They know she’s a handsome older woman with a temper, but a fierce sense of loyalty and honor. 

They also know she’s sharp-tongued and passionate to the point of bluntness. 

But they know this from Elliott.

Not from their own experiences with her.

“According to Elliott, you have saved my son multiple times in the ring. Thank you.”

“He was simply my team mate-”

“Nonetheless. Thank you,” she cuts them off sharply. 

Their mouth snaps shut behind their mask. 

“He’s also told me a lot about you. Not everything. But enough.” 

“Ma’am-”

“Hush. I’m much older than you, and while I can’t, and will never, understand everything that has happened to you, I can tell you this as an old person: You deserve better. People aren’t meant to travel this universe alone. It’s hard, sometimes. Not just being alone, but being with people. Trusting other people. Loving other people. Hoping they won’t betray you, and worse, when they don’t. When you love them more than anyone else, and know one day they will be gone. Love is a horrible thing. It really is.” 

“Ms. Witt-” 

“Hush! Keep listening. I know you’re an adult. And I know that adults think they don’t  have to listen to mothers anymore. But I can tell you this as a mother and a Witt: The time you spend loving someone is not worthless. It will never be worthless, even when that time is over.”

Sophia gently touches their shoulder. 

Normally they would be made instantly uncomfortable, perhaps even hostile.

But something about this woman reminds them of their mother.

And it’s been a long time since their own mother has put her palm on their shoulder, and told them seriously that they needn’t be afraid of anything. 

“If you’re just leaving because you’re scared, that’s fine. That’s alright. But there’s so much more to being alive than winning or losing, than beating other people, than proving you’re better, than seeking vengeance, or even seeking the truth. These things mean so little when the human heart has the capacity for so much more. They tried so hard to remove every element of humanity from you, tried to make you hard, and cold, and practical. These things have helped you survive. But surviving isn’t living.” 

The shuttle warning lights begin to flash. 

Bloodhound looks off into the distance, where the shuttle’s light can be seen, trundling up the path. 

“Take some time to think about it,” Sophia says, smiling at them. “You know where to find us. And I imagine that Warren, being the way he is, has blabbed your hideout location to Elliott. Brothers are like that, you know? Can’t keep many secrets from one another.” 

The driver-less shuttle stops beside them. The doors slide open. No one else is in it. 

“You take care of yourself, Bloodhound.” 

“...Thank you, Ms. Witt.” 

“Call me Sophia,” she says with a wink. 

* * *

When they arrive at the desiccated planet of Molven, long-abandoned by the IMC due to its harsh desert-like environment and somewhat toxic surface, they have had a long and uneventful journey.

Like other forms of travel, other than walking of course, they dislike star travel. 

It’s also nice to be on a planet mostly devoid of life outside of tough and sparse plant species.  

For a week, they decompose, enjoying the solitude, the isolation, being able to walk around without their mask, yet still be undisturbed. 

They cultivate their indoor garden, enjoying their prickly cacti and exotic carnivorous plants. 

They spend time with their ravens, bonding with and training new hatchlings. 

They fix their mask and begin tinkering with it, doing testing and making improvements. 

For two weeks, they forget about the game, relaxing and taking the time to reflect on themselves. 

Only in their dreams, do they dwell on the game. 

They dream of the ring, always closing in on them.

Following them, wherever they go. 

They dream of falling off a great height, of being suspended in light, hanging in the air by a thread, a pit of grimmur below, waiting to sink their teeth into their flesh. 

And they dream of someone leaning on them. 

Someone familiar, their face turned away, hair tickling their neck. 

But they don’t remember who it is in the morning, and often the dream fades from their memories by breakfast. 

But the feeling lingers long into the night, when they’re lying awake, waiting to fall asleep, and the darkness, once so comfortable, now feels uneasy.

In the empty quiet of the deserted planet, they no longer feel safe, but alone. 

And tired, almost lethargic, of being alone. 

But even so, when their communicator, usually completely empty of pings, except for the notifications of their more public communicator on a neighboring planet, beeps with a message, they are so startled by the noise that they almost drop their watering can in the water filtration tank. 

They stare at the signal.

It isn’t a signal they recognize, nor is the ship it’s being transmitted from one they have ever seen before. 

They are worried at first, because no one should know where they are. 

They have been hiding on this planet for years, ever since they had killed a serial murderer right here, in this very secret spot. 

People had stumbled on it before, but had ignored it or avoided staying here for long due to its mostly hazardous atmosphere and lack of resources. 

This person can’t have stumbled on it if they were calling. 

But then Bloodhound remembers that they had given Warren their location, and it was most likely him. 

Just in case it isn’t, they respond with a signal that asks, “The name of the doctor my serum was developed by?"(something they had told Warren during one of his many inquiries, his mother-hen-like fussing). 

Whoever is sending the signal doesn’t answer immediately.

But when they do, it reads: “Banton.” 

“Why are you here?” they type and send back.

“Need to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

“Want to talk face to face. Please send landing coordinates.”

“Why?”

“It’s sensitive information. I don’t want record of it anywhere.”

Bloodhound squints at the message, puzzled. 

Perhaps Warren had run into the wrong crowd or had resumed work with the Frontier Militia. 

“Very well.” 

They send him a place to land in one hour, one of the few areas safe from the irradiated zones, and prepare to make the journey there.

* * *

 

The location is only a thirty minute walk away, but they had told Warren to come in an hour, just in case he had been coerced or forced to give up Bloodhound’s location and was not here on his own free will.

They prepare the clearing, turning on the camouflaged turrets they had stolen off of a black market cargo ship and aiming them to shoot at two lines on either side of the clearing they had cleared out a long time ago. 

There are also smoke grenades loaded up in automated frag cannons, aimed at the same lines the turrets were aiming at, to keep the enemy guessing where they were being shot from. 

There is a trap door hidden behind a tree to the southwest. It leads into an underground tunnel that goes more or less, with a few twists and turns, to their base. 

It is also rigged with booby traps. 

All in all, they are very tense when Warren’s ship lands.

And they tense even more, standing thirty yards away, when the rear door opens, and a man walks out. 

But it isn’t Warren, or someone who had held Warren hostage and forced him to come here, or someone impersonating Warren. 

It is someone much worse. 

“Elliott.”

* * *

 

Elliott Witt grins at Bloodhound from the back of the new state of the art personal star cruiser he’d bought with his shiny new Apex coins.

“Bloodhound. Wonderful to see you again.”

He walks forward, spreading his arms, expecting, or perhaps hoping, for a hug.

But Bloodhound pivots as sharply as a saluting soldier, stomping away from the clearing and towards the bristly bushes that populate the area in thick bunches. 

Elliott hastens after them, wincing as the bushes scratch and tug at his clothes.

“Aren’t you going to say you’re glad to see me too?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?”

“I am no liar.” 

“Very funny.” 

“I’m no comedian either.”

They take swift strides, but Elliott takes longer strides, and soon he’s walking beside them. 

Grinning stupidly, his eyes glued to Bloodhound’s mask, full of dreamy wonder like a schoolboy with his first crush.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I haven’t thought of you.”

“Now that just hurts...but that’s alright, I’m here now. Now you will.” 

“You’re not staying.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

“You don’t sound very sure.” 

“You’re tone deaf.” 

“And you’re blind to love, we make a perfect pair.”

Bloodhound makes a noise that might be a cough, or a hastily repressed chuckle. 

“What do you want, Elliott Witt? Our business is done.”

“Maybe I just want to hang out. Don’t you just hang out sometimes? Go to a movie, get a drink, play a game of checkers with old people?”

Elliott starts to fall a little behind Bloodhound, but he determinedly keeps pace with them. 

“No. I am perfectly content being here alone. If you’re just here to bother me, I warn you, I will knock you out, put you in a box with holes punched in it, and send you back to your brother.” 

Elliott smiles cheekily at their back. “Thank you for putting holes in my box.” 

Their walk is disturbed by the slightest jerk of their foot. 

The holographic trickster beams behind them, taking that as a good sign. 

“So where do you hide away? This seems like a nice place. Very…” he says, while gesturing at the ragged plant life and cracked red ground, “Picturesque.

“It’s far away from people, and no one in their right mind would come here for any reason."

“ _ I’m  _ here.”

“My last statement stands.” 

Elliott laughs. 

“Walked right into that one.” 

“Stop following me. Go back to your ship.” 

“Can’t I stay the night? It was such a long trip, and I’m very tired…”

“Sleep on your ship.” 

“Well that’s not very welcoming of you.” 

Bloodhound finally turns around exasperatedly, or at least, he assumes they’re exasperated since it can be hard to tell through the mask. 

“You may stay one night. One. Then you have to go. I enjoy my solitude, and if you have no reason to be here-”

“I do have a reason to be here, actually,” Elliott admits. He shoves his hands in his pockets, silly, broad smile still on his face. 

Bloodhound surveys him carefully, face and true emotions hidden behind the mask. 

“And what is that?” 

“I’m here for  _ you."  _

* * *

“Wow, what a home-y little place...full of...wires,” Elliott says, reaching for Bloodhound’s crafting table.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Their hideout is partially underground, the entrance blocked by sheets of metal, carefully covered in glass that mimics the surface behind it. Half of it is enclosed by metal, the other half is a part of the cave.

The half that is outside, and not underground, is their work space. The cave area is where they sleep, with personal belongings such as armor, their crows' sleeping boxes, their hygienic materials, supplies, and other such things. 

“Are we in a mountain? Hello!” Elliott cups his hands around his mouth and yells. “Echo!” 

“Yes, it is a mountain. Please be quiet.”

“Gotcha, gotcha. And what’s this?” Elliott walks excitedly over to a surface-less bulletin board they have set up, a hologram made up of light that they can move through the air however they please. He touches the photo of a man and slides it a few inches to the right, delighted to see a line drawn in midair, following his finger with a beam of light. “Excellent! My mom would love to study this-”

“You can sleep over there,” Bloodhound grumbles, pointing at a random corner. 

“Do I at least get a pillow and a blanket?” Elliott asks. “Even dogs get those.” 

“There are some in that box. I will retrieve them.” 

They hurry away as though not wanting to be standing so close to him, wanting to busy themselves so they don’t have to talk to him.

But he’s not willing to be ignored. 

He follows them to the back, watches them sift through piles of boxes crammed in the back of the hide out.

“What’s all this?”

“Nonessentials. Things I do not need to grab in the case of an emergency flight.”

“Lots of nonessentials, huh.”

“I do not have much use for most material possessions.” 

Elliott crouches and opens one.

“Ah, compasses and maps. All backed up somewhere else?" 

“Naturally.”

“Blueprints of IMC buildings and star maps of IMC systems?”

“Also backed up.”

“Always prepared to get back on the run, huh?”

“I am used to being hunted.” 

Elliott’s smile wavers.

Bloodhound’s voice had gone quite cold there, their annoyance being replaced by something much more grim. 

“Do you feel safe here?”

The noise of shuffling and boxes being opened stops. 

“It is adequate. The natural defenses are a deterrent to random travelers and mineral prospectors, its barren landscape provides ample space for training exercises and experiments with my technology-”

“I asked if you felt safe. As in...does this place make you happy?” 

Bloodhound resumes searching through their nonessentials. 

“What does that matter? I do not have the luxury.” 

“Luxury? It’s a human need. Humans can’t be miserable all the time. We just can’t.”

“I am not miserable.”

“But you’re not happy. Humans need happiness to function.”

“Are you calling me dysfunctional?” Bloodhound asks shortly, tossing him a pillow finally.

“Yes,” Elliott answers unabashedly.

Bloodhound throws a blanket over his head. 

He pulls it off, looking amused. 

“You want to make a pillow fort?”

“Go to sleep.”

“It’s the afternoon, aren’t you going to feed me dinner?”

“I have to feed you?” Bloodhound asks, some humor finally slipping into their raspy modified voice. 

Elliott grins cheek to cheek.

* * *

The nearest star’s light grows weaker as orbital rotation turns this side of the planet away from it. 

Bloodhound watches it as they stir a boiling pot hanging over a campfire, Elliott lying on his side on a blanket, chattering noisily about how Warren’s doing, how his mother’s doing, who won the most recent Great Starship Race and why it was a travesty. 

Although he had been annoying at first, Bloodhound had adjusted to hearing him chatter again, and is now able to tune him out.

It had been  odd, seeing Elliott’s face.

Watching it change rapidly, with excitement and humor and anger as he rants about starship bylines and regulations. 

It’s strange to hear his voice and see him here, on their planet. 

They almost wonder if they have finally snapped, and are beginning to see things that don’t really exist. 

But Elliott, in one wild rendition of how his mother had to physically restrain him from beating a guy in a bar who had the nerve to insult his favorite racer, touches their shoulder a little too casually.

And as they shrug it off, they realize, begrudgingly, that he is most certainly actually here. 

“And you know, I’m practically famous at home now. Everyone knows me for winning, people are asking me for money or for autographs, I’ve got interviews booked all around the clock, kids run up to me in the streets. It’s pretty crazy. Everyone asks me what you’re like,” Elliott adds slyly, winking at them. “But don’t worry, I just tell them you’re cool and mysterious. You know, stoic and sexy quiet.”

Bloodhound looks at him. 

His hair is shorter, sharper, framing his face better. He is darker than he was before, tanner and less sickly pale from being shot and force-healed so many times. He overall looks healthier and more alert, less on edge than the last time they had seen him.

They feel a part of themselves melt, unable to maintain the strict distance they had wanted to keep for the entirety of Elliott’s “visit.” 

“It is...good to see  you,” they say with a sigh.

Elliott beams at them, and they look away as though his face were the sun. 

“I knew it.” 

“Don’t get full of yourself. I just...wasn’t expecting your company and reacted defensively. You are...a friend, after all.”

“Yeah, I am,” their companion says, pleased. “Be honest now, have you missed me?”

They hesitate in answering.

Had they?

They had just been enjoying being unmasked. They had been enjoying the quiet, the time to reflect, the little chores and daily routines they could perform without someone coming to slit their throat in the middle of the night. 

But at the same time, something in their gut prevents them from saying “no” outright, something that perhaps remembered the subconscious tossing and turning, the nightmares of falling. 

“...Perhaps,” they answer as truthfully as they can.

Elliott nods. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

 

He loves to hear Bloodhound talk.

He asks them everything he can think of.

About their daily routine, how their ravens are doing, what kind of technology they are working on, upgrade specifics, how they spend their time on such a dangerous planet.

Although they are hesitant at first, now they seem to relish in speaking, talking avidly about their new fledgling ravens, how far in their training they are, their each distinct personalities and preferences. 

As they talk, Elliott listens, fascinated, but also wishing that they would take off their mask so that he could hear their true voice.

He almost asks them to, but then restrains himself because if Bloodhound wants to speak in their mask, feels most comfortable doing so, then he won’t push them to do something they don’t want to do.

And they’re clearly comfortable speaking through the voice modifier, even though they are among friends.

“And…” Bloodhound’s voice softens, and Elliott is snapped back into the conversation, having been listening, but zoning just for a little. “And I have...regrettably ran out of leads on the last of my family members.” 

Elliott blinks, a frown tugging at his lips. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It is fine. It was bound to happen someday.” 

“But you know, I could help-”

“I highly doubt it,” Bloodhound says coolly, voice suddenly chilly. 

“No, no, wait, I actually can-”

“Are you mocking me?” they ask, voice now showing hints of anger. “Or about to say some silly, flirtatious quip?”

“Neither, I just-”

“Perhaps you wanted to segue into some lecherous joke? Or perhaps you were going to be serious, and offer me the chance to find a new family with you,” Bloodhound says, looking away from him, voice agitated. “Is that why you’re really here, Elliott? Because then you are not here for me, as you said. You are only here for yourself.” 

“Would you let me talk?” Elliott snaps, actually snaps, at Bloodhound. 

Their head turns sharply towards him. 

“Why are you so defensive?” the man asks. “Why do I rile you up so much?”

“You do not!”

“That’s pretty riled up!” 

“You are...infuriating.”

“And you’re projecting at least half of that anger on me, when I haven’t actually done anything to deserve it!” Elliott cries. “Listen. This isn’t you. You aren’t like this.”

“No. I’m not. This is your fault,” Bloodhound murmurs, anger fading from their voice so quickly it's almost like it had never been there at all. 

“But why is it my fault? Do you hate me, Bloodhound?"

“No. No, I don’t.”

“So why the hell do I get you so angry? Do you really want me gone?” Elliott stands up, kicking his blanket aside. “I will be gone in a heartbeat if you really want me gone.” 

He says it and means it.

But his heart quivers just a little as Bloodhound considers him, staring at him contemplatively. After a tense fifteen seconds, the masked hunter finally says: “I do not want that.”

Relief floods his chest and he sits down onto the cold, hard ground with a sigh

“So you’re glad I’m here.”

“...Perhaps.”

“Good enough for me.”

* * *

 

Bloodhound stares at Elliott, thinking about what he said, and what he implied.

Why does Elliott “rile them up” so much? 

His quips had been charming in the ring, often clever, usually directed at Caustic, a perfect subject of comedy.

Yet now their stomach aches every time he makes one, and their head feels warm and woozy. 

Perhaps they are ill. 

“Bloodhound… I’ll be honest with you. I missed you. I missed you a lot. And I thought about you a lot,” Elliott says. He stares up at the sky. “And I know you can take care of yourself, but I couldn’t stop worrying about what you were doing.” 

Bloodhound’s eyes flicker to Elliott’s, but he’s not looking at them. 

His eyes are full of stars, and twice as radiant. 

Something in their chest tightens. 

They feel that woozy, rushing warmth in their head again. 

“I just wanted to know you were safe. And I-”

“Why?”

Elliott meets Bloodhound’s gaze, the stars still reflected a little in his bright eyes, but fading fast. 

“Why…?”

“Why would you care?” Bloodhound says flatly. “Why? Who am I, Elliott? Some masked, genderless freak you met in a death match that you were assigned to protect? A means to an end that you discovered you liked along the way? What am I to you, Mr. Witt? An oddity? A mystery? A tragic hero that you can feel better about your own troubles around? A charity case?”

“None of those things, Bloodhound. None of those-”

“What happens when I die?” 

Their hands touch their mask, tracing the ridges, stopping at the eyes. Over their injured eye. 

“Will  you mourn me for a few months? A year? A few years? But what does it matter?”

“Bloodhound, you’re important to me-”

“Why?” they demand, suddenly lurching forward and seizing him by the shirt, pulling him closer to them, their knuckles white as their fingers fist themselves around the fabric. “Why? What do you see in me?”

“S-someone who’s calm under fire, dignified, brave, loyal, determined, not afraid of anything-”

“I am none of those things. You don’t know me at all,” Bloodhound says, letting him go. They are breathing strangely, their gasps coming out in short, distorted pieces. “I am no one, I am nothing. I hide behind this mask. And you-you have no right to-”

“I want to know you-”

“But why? Who would want to know me? What am I, Elliott? I have no people, no home, the shambles of a dead culture. I have no purpose in this universe, no one to protect, only memories to preserve, and whose memories? The memories of a people who were destined to die. Whose gods sat by and did nothing as they were slaughtered. And yet I call their names, I invoke their blessings, and inflict their wrath...and for what? A people who are long dead? Whose memories live on only in me? Why am I here, Elliott?” 

Bloodhound’s fingers are trembling as they grip the back of their mask. 

They can’t seem to breathe. 

Elliott stands up and hurriedly helps them pull the mask off.

They gasp, their chest trembling, their hands on their heart as though it were about to burst.

“Bloodhound? I need you to breathe-”

“Why did it have to be me?” they whisper breathlessly. “Why do I have to be the one who’s alone? Why did it have to be me?”

Elliott grabs both their shoulders and leans forward, his forehead touching Bloodhound’s gently. 

“Breathe,” he says. “Breathe.” 

They let out a shuddering exhale. He reaches up to cup his hands around their neck instead. 

He gently pulls Bloodhound's head up and looks them straight in the eye. 

Their good eye fixes on him and doesn't look away. 

“That’s it. Now inhale, and hold it.”

They obey him. 

And he repeats himself, over and over. 

And watches Bloodhound's eyes close as they begin to calm. 

“I hate...I just hate…” they sigh. “I hate being here. I hate being alive. I sometimes wish I were dead, but I can’t be dead, because then they’ll all be truly gone. But I don’t want to be the one responsible for their memories. I just wanted to make my own place in this universe. I wanted to do what every other kid got to do, deciding if I wanted to be a weaver or a painter or a potter. I wanted to educate myself, have interests and hobbies, meet people. See other cultures. Be influenced by them, decide what I would incorporate into my life, and what not to. But I can’t. I can’t, because their ghosts hang over my head. And they’ll haunt me forever, asking me why it had to be me, and not them. They’d do it right, they would worship the Allfather properly. They would be happy to be alive. I’m the one squandering my life, being miserable. And yet I can’t stop. I can’t, because I’m here, and I never wanted to be here without them.”

A tear trickles down Bloodhound’s scarred cheek. 

“I’ve been alone for so long,” they whisper. “I can’t bear it anymore, but I can’t live any other way.” 

Their eyes close.

And Elliott acts on pure Witt impulse, stupid and reckless, but full of good intentions. 

He wraps his arms around them, and squeezes them tight.

He expects them to tense.

And they do.

For a few seconds. 

But he holds on determinedly, rubbing their back, trying to remind them what human contact feels like.

Fondness. Compassion. Sympathy. Affection.

An aversion to someone else’s misery. 

And then they relax in his grip, not hugging him back, but not resisting either.

He reaches up to pat their hair the way his mother used to, running his fingers gently over their messy red locks. 

“They loved you,” Elliott says. Without thinking, his hand goes from Bloodhound’s hair to the side of their face, thumb rubbing against their cheek. They almost lean into his palm instinctively, their working eye flickering first towards his hand, then to his eyes, looking desperate for something, although he isn’t sure what. “They must’ve, for you to love them this much. To torture yourself because you think they’d be disappointed in you. Remember how you told me that I was punishing myself? That I was...broken? And consumed with guilt and self loathing? And that I...what was it you said? Didn’t know my place in the universe? You were right. I was. I ran into the Apex Game head first because I thought I wanted glory, but what I really wanted was punishment. Retribution for all the mistakes I made. But you… you were a victim of circumstance. And you think that because you are the only survivor, that you owe your people...their memories. Their lives, lived through you. And maybe you’re scared to be happy, because then why do you get to be happy and alive, when they aren’t?”

His hand stops.

Bloodhound stares at him, face shocked as though Elliott had said something particularly crude or offensive. 

They twitch under his touch, as though to pull away.

But he grips them tighter, still gently, but firmly. 

“But if they loved you, they would’ve wanted to see you happy. They would’ve wanted you to do all those things you wanted to do. They would’ve wanted to see you living, not just surviving, and becoming the person you were meant to be. Not the person you think you have to be, but the person you always were. Your experiences changed you, of course they did, but they shouldn’t destroy who you are. You are not an unfeeling monster. You are not a bloodthirsty animal that only knows the hunt. Nor are you a representative of a dead culture. You’re a human being first, Bloodhound. You’re a person like everyone else. Not a legacy, or a relic, or some kind of living time capsule, or even a vengeful spirit. But a person. And I...like you. I like you a lot. Too much to see you do this to yourself.”

Bloodhound stops struggling to get away. 

Their hand tentatively reaches up, towards his face.

Elliott winces, closing his eyes, prepared for a slap.

But instead, he feels their gloved fingers on his cheek. 

He opens his eyes. 

But he then closes them again, almost immediately, as Bloodhound presses scarred lips against his. 

Time freezes in Elliott’s mind, which is full of fireworks, hot and sparking, energy exploding behind his eyelids, blinding him. 

He gasps, and almost faints, when he feels Bloodhound’s lips opening too, and their tongue darts experimentally against his, sending heat coursing through his belly, as though this were his first time being kissed. 

It’s over much too soon, in half of a second, one which he will treasure for the rest of his life, and Bloodhound is leaning away from him, looking flushed. 

They say nothing, staring at him fearfully, as though he’d suddenly grown an extra head with horns. 

He stares just as fearfully back, scared of what had just happened, yet excited and ecstatic at the same time. 

Then, after a long pause, they say, “I...think I like you a lot too.” 

They blink at one another, neither moving, both with bodies as taut as bowstrings, tense as though about to engage in a fight to the death.

Then Bloodhound lets out a weak noise, like a grunt. 

And then it evolves into a huff.

And then a laugh.

A full blown, from the chest, rib-aching, spine tingling laugh. 

And Elliott has to join in. 

Because he’s full of nervous energy and elation, and someone he has a crush on is laughing, and don’t we all find our crushes hilarious, no matter what they say or do?

He laughs and laughs and laughs, and Bloodhound laughs with him.

And they laugh until they’re breathless. 

Until Bloodhound flops over onto their side, ribs aching, their throat hurting, their head woozy from all the laughing. 

And Elliott crawls over to them, smiling so hard his lips hurt, feel as though they’ve seized up and will be permanently locked into a grin for the rest of his natural life.

He plops down next to them.

They stare at one another, ears to the ground, eyes meeting beneath a sky full of stars. 

Bloodhound is staring at him as though they have never seen a person before in their life, seeing him in a new light, seeing him not as a team mate or an ally or even a friend, but as something more. 

The longing in their eyes almost hurts his own soul, it’s so deep and powerful. It burns its way through his heart. 

And Bloodhound, looking at Elliott, thinks that he looks at them as though they were someone precious, someone special, someone who was needed, wanted, loved. Someone who had a place in the universe, occupied their own space, without rules, without a purpose mandated by someone else, someone who exists not because they are allowed to, but because they simply are. 

“You asked me in a dream once,” Elliott says slowly. His eyes are no longer full of stars, but they soak in Bloodhound’s face, and are full of kindness instead. They are filled to the brim with humanity, with the powerful bestowed gift of recognition and marvelous wonder of seeing the world from another's eyes.  “I told you I knew my place. And you said ‘And?’ But I never got to tell you that I know the answer.”

“And?” Bloodhound asks.

Elliott closes his eyes and smiles broadly.

“And...I think it’s right here beside you. Wherever you are. Wherever you go. In this infinite universe, I think there's one place for me. And it's right here." 

Bloodhound’s heart flutters.

The words are similar, and that strikes an almost knee-jerk reaction in their gut, makes them afraid, so afraid, of hearing that one word. 

But Elliott doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say what Armann had said to them, all those years ago, the promise that was broken, was a lie, even as it was completely true. 

“We can’t be together forever. I know that. Nothing lasts forever. But who cares? Even if we die the next second, I’ll have this moment. In my short, pathetic little human life span, I will have had this. And that’s what makes human lives so fucking amazing. How small they are. How little they mean in the Grand Scheme of Things. We can do whatever we want, lead completely meaningless lives, and guess what? As long as we’re happy. As long as we do what we want, those lives were here. They exist. They didn’t ripple the fabric of space and time, but they matter precisely because they don’t have to matter.” 

“You’re talking nonsense now,” Bloodhound giggles. Elliott giggles with them, pressing his head against theirs. Their noses brush against one another. And Bloodhound surprises them again by pressing their lips against his cheek, giving him a small peck that might as well be a glancing blow to the heart, the way it makes it pound. 

“Humans are nonsense. This whole thing-” Elliott says, gesturing around himself. “Is nonsense. Isn’t it awesome? Isn’t it...amazing?”

Bloodhound doesn’t answer verbally.

But kissing him again on the mouth, hands clasped around his neck, pulling him to their chest, is answer enough. 

* * *

 

When Bloodhound wakes up the next morning, a bare-chested Elliott is staring at them with an idiotic grin on his face.

“What are you looking at?” they ask grumpily.

“Your bed head is...fantastic. I wish I had a camera, I would absolutely ask my stylist to replicate that. We could be matching. Like twins." 

Bloodhound rolls their eyes.

“You do know how messed up that would be, right?”

He shrugs.

Then he grimaces as his stomach rumbles.

“God, I’m hungry." 

“Just wait a minute, I’ll go and...cook some cacti-”

“Ugh, no thanks. That shit is so nasty. I only choked it down last night because you were still mad at me, and I didn’t want to complain…”

“I happen to like how bitter it is…”

Elliott shakes his head. “Your taste buds are just deprived. The heat or the toxins of this planet must’ve gotten to you. We’ll have to fix that.”

Bloodhound, who’d been stumbling towards their clothes, tossed wildly around the room, pauses, giving Elliott a rather spectacular view...that he then has to avert his eyes from, as the hunter gives him a pointed, indignant glare. “What do you mean?" 

“Well as soon as we get off this planet…”

“What do you mean? Why would we leave? I mean…” Bloodhound pauses. “Couldn’t you...stay?”

They sound almost childlike in their hesitation, a little kid afraid of asking a parent a presumptuous question. 

“I told you I belong next to you, and I meant that. I’d stay here and eat nothing but cacti if you really wanted me to,” Elliott declares. “But do you really want to be here, Hound?” 

“Atli.”

“What?”

“Atli,” Bloodhound repeats. “It was my...it is my true name.”

Elliott’s eyes look a little moist, but it’s too early in the morning for him to be crying like a little girl, especially in front of Bloodhound, so he averts them and rubs at them with his fingers. 

“Atli. It suits you. I love it. Now I know what name to scream-” 

“Elliott!”

“What, did you want to practice?”

He laughs at his own joke, then pretends to struggle as he feels Bloodhound whacking him lightly on the back of the head. 

But then he frowns again as he remembers what they had been discussing.

“Atli. Do you really want to be here? Just the two of us? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sounds great. Sounds wild. But forever? Aren’t there places you want to go? Things you want to see? Things you want to do?” 

He turns to look at Bloodhound, now fully dressed, although their mask, he’s pleased to note, is still off. 

“...I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well think about it now. And keep thinking about it. Because my brother loves you. My mom loves you. You could come with us. You could be one of us. And even if...even if you and I doesn’t...work out. Which, you know, could happen,” Elliott admits. “You’ll always have me as a friend, I promise. You’ll always have my mom and my brother, and...all the friends we could make. All of the wonderful and weird humans out there who aren’t total dirtbags. They exist, I promise. They’re waiting for you to meet them, and rock their worlds, I’m telling you. Do you trust me, Atli?” 

Bloodhound feels a shiver shoot down their spine at the sound of their name on Elliott’s lips. 

“I do,” they say. 

“Then come with me. Come with me, and maybe you’ll even get to meet Talos. He would love you, I just know it. If he’s alive out there, then we’ll find him. And he’ll love you.” 

He extends his hand out to them, eyes bright, full of hope.

And Bloodhound, for the first time since Elliott has arrived on Molven, doesn’t hesitate.

They take it and squeeze it tight. 

“I will stay with you,” they say solemnly. “I’ll follow you wherever you need to go.” 

“...even Valkana?” Elliott says after a moment. 

They tense, flinching just at the name. But looking at Elliott's pleading eyes, they let out a heavy sigh. 

“Yes. Even Valkana.”

“Not for long,” Elliott says hastily. “Maybe only briefly. But there’s something you should know about Valkana, Atli…”

“Can’t it wait until we’re closer?” Bloodhound sighs. “I don’t want to think about that stinking city for any longer than I have to…”

“I think you want to know this. There’s someone you  have to meet, who’s from there…”

“A corrupt city official? Black market dealer? Do I know their name already?” They walk away from him, looking critically at their belongings, trying to figure out what they are going to bury or burn. 

“I mean maybe? She should sound familiar…”

“She?”

“Yeah, a girl Warren met by chance…” 

“A girl?”

“Yeah...her name is Alda." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lord, I'm...very emotional.
> 
> This has been...so awesome. You guys who left kudos and comments are just wonderful. Seriously, all of your feedback reminded me that I am in fact a writer. I haven't felt like one in a while, because I'm a piece of shit who hasn't been writing cuz they're crazy, but Bloodhound got me to feel something again, and then this fanfic sprung into existence, and here we are.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this story for this long. I really appreciate it, and love all of you.
> 
> And shamelessly, I have to plug this: yes, I'm also a published author. I wrote Borderlines, an angsty LGBT romance just like this one. The only difference is that one is actually, somehow, more fucked up than this one. 
> 
> Sounds impossible, I know, given how fucked up this one is. But oh well. It's here if you're interested: https://www.amazon.com/Borderlines-K-L-Somniate/dp/1544117671
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> This is not the last you've heard of me. I have a lot of other Apex fics to write. But for now, I rest. Until we meet again, my lovelies.


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